Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things
by The Queen of Thornes
Summary: We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark. [Time-Travel AU]
1. I - King in the North

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter I –** _Jon_

* * *

In the chamber that had once belonged to his eldest brother, Jon scrubs his hand over the days growth on his jaw, the soft candlelight doing little to ease his troubled mind.

He feels like a fraud.

The same Northern Lords who'd once so readily proclaimed Robb as the King in the North, had declared for him with the same fervor, thanks to the call of Lady Lyanna Mormont. The word of a child, a child who was named for his Lord Father's sister no less, had stirred the Northern Lords into declaring for him... a Bastard.

 _The North Remembers._

His grey eyes settle upon the battered bronze circlet dangling from his fingertips, the once sharp black iron broadswords that rounded the crown were dulled and bent, the runes of the First Men scratched and broken. The crown that had rested upon Robb's head was presented to him with little fanfare by Lady Brienne's squire, how he'd gotten his hands upon it Jon doesn't know, but he's thankful, the weighted reminder of Robb's fateful reign grounding him.

Robb, in all essence, was born to be King in the North. Jon feels like a fraud, holding his brother's crown, sleeping in his brother's bed, claiming his brother's title. He is a bastard, he knows not where he was born, he knows not the name of his mother, he knows nothing of the circumstances that surrounded his Lord Father forsaking his honour… all he knows, is that he does not deserve to be King in the North.

 _We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark._

He isn't a Stark. No matter Eddard's blood in his veins, or that he was raised at Winterfell, he is a Snow. The name they give all Noble Bastards of the North. He wonders if he's not supposed to be a Rivers, or a Sand, he was born during Robert's Rebellion, the _Usurper's Rebellion,_ and it could be he's not a Snow at all. Though it doesn't truly matter now, he realises, as he'll never find the answers he seeks. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and by Jon's reckoning, that Stark should be Sansa, regardless of her being a woman. If a woman could be Queen, then a woman could inherit. With Robb and Rickon dead, and with Bran and Arya beyond their reach, Sansa was, in all essence, the last trueborn Stark. And yet, it was he who holds Winterfell.

Jon will _never_ forget the sight of the Northern Lords, swords raised above their heads, united in their declaration of independence, united in their cry of King in the North. He remembers his fear, reflected in Sansa's crystal blue eyes, as the burden that killed their brother was placed upon his shoulders. But most of all he remembers her determined stare, the daydreaming child she was crushed beneath the palms of _Bastards_ like Ramsey Bolton.

 _The North Remembers._

He spins the crown between his palms, flipping it over and over and as if by doing so he can turn back time and it would be sitting upon Robb's head, instead of his own. Jon hangs his head… he misses his brother. He'd been seven and ten when they last met, saying their goodbyes in the courtyard of Winterfell, so blissfully unaware that they would never meet again... and by the gods, Jon would do anything to go back to the days before Robert Baratheon's arrival at Winterfell.

With Robb's crown upon his head, Jon stares into the shined silver looking glass mounted upon the stone wall... and sobs. His Lord Father's death, Lady Catelyn's death, Robb's death, Sansa's rape, Bran's crippling, Rickon's murder, it could all be traced back to the Usurper's arrival at Winterfell. His demand had Lord Stark leave his seat to become the Hand of the King, and until his second dying day, Jon will never understand the undying _loyalty_ his Lord Father bestowed upon the man who set a Kingdom ablaze to right a wrong that wasn't his to claim. That that trust led to Lord Stark's death... well, Jon knew all too well the price of misplaced loyalty. The scars that littered his chest reminding him of such every time he saw his reflection in the polished silver looking glass

Jon snatches the crown from his head, unable to bare the weight of it any longer. He has no right to Robb's crown, to Robb's title. If Robb's crown should belong to anyone, it should be Sansa's. He could imagine it, his brother's crown restored to its former glory, adorning her head, her Tully-red hair fanning out like a halo and her blue-eyes hard, ready to lead the North to victory. It's a fools dream, he knows the Northern Lords, for all their love for their mothers, wives and daughters, would never follow Sansa. They view her as broken, no matter that she almost single handedly won Winterfell for the North.

In a moment of bitterness, in a moment of pure, unadulterated anger, Jon throws Robb's crown at the stone wall, his rage failing as it clatters to the floor noisily. He doesn't want this. He wants his family, alive and well, as they were years ago.

 _The North Remembers_.

It's all too much. Half his family is dead… Arya and Bran were lost, Sansa is broken… _he_ is broken. Sliding down the cool wall, Jon holds his head in his hands, his spirit well and truly shattered.

Everything they went through, everyone they lost… it seems so pointless. Jon finds himself longing for his childhood, when his only fear was that which existed only in the stories that Old Nan used to tell.

Jon's head snaps up.

Old Nan.

The world slows as he stands, his heartbeat steady in his ears, the torch-lit halls of Winterfell blurring together as he traverses them, his mind refusing to process anything more than the idea that has taken him. Jon can't be sure if he's dreaming as he looks up at the red-leaved heart tree with no memory of how he's gotten here, the face of the Old Gods staring into his soul.

Winter has come, but Jon does not feel the bite of the wind nor the sting of the water as he steps deep into the depths of the reflecting pool his Lord Father used to sit beside cleaning Ice, until his waist is covered and he can go no further.

 _When the Long Summer has past and Winter has Come, the Children of the Forest awaken and their magic returns._

For a moment he floats, the sight of the stars peaking through the red-leaves of the white branched Weirwood tree offering him a single moment of clarity... before he sinks beneath the obsidian water, the stars fading and his vision blurring.

 _Please_. Jon begs, slipping deep into the embrace of the Old Gods, his lungs wet, his heart slowing its beat… and thumping its last. _Answer_ _my_ _prayer_.

* * *

 **AN:** And so it begins.

21/05/2017 - Minor edits, spelling, grammar, point of view. Disclaimer.


	2. II - The Three Eyed Raven

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark.

* * *

 **Chapter II –** _Bran_

* * *

He's shoved, harshly, the wind's knocked out of him, and suddenly, he's flying, the world is too bright, and his world... turns black.

Reality... _twists._

Pain is his first memory- his legs don't work- he was so sure they did, how else had he climbed so high? But he can't hold himself up anymore... there was someone, a girl, does he love her? No, maybe? But she holds him up, drags him along- why can't he walk? She's his legs. He's her guide.

Green. Everything is green. All that was red is now green, burning, dying, _screaming._ Dead, so many dead. _Burn them all._ Ayres, the Mad King- but it's not him, it's her, the Mad Queen, first the water, then the Sept, then the Seven Kingdoms.

All that was, now was not.

The colours die again, and the black returns. But it's different. Softer. Wings, he realises, his wings. He's a Raven. No, he's The Raven, The Three Eyed Raven. He sees all. Except he's not- he's a boy- he walks, he climbs, all on his own- what he was, not who he is now. _But it is._

His wings expand- they beat strongly and a crow dies.

It comes in flashes.

He sees Arya. She's running- always running- first from a Lion, then a Hound, then a man with no face and many all at once. She grows, taller, stronger- she flickers, from human to animal and back again- he sees her as Nymeria, her muzzle stained crimson, her fur matted with blood- suddenly she's Arya again, naked, bloody… _wild._

Then it's Sansa- it's red, all red, her blood, her hair, the castle, so many reds- no white, no blue. She cowers before a lion, then another and another- a child helps her stand, he turns, and the child is a man- strong, kind, safe- but he's gone and Sansa is alone- falling, a cloaked man moves sharp objects in her way, making certain she hits them on her way down- first a woman, then a smiling man, who catches her, only to the throw her in the dirt- his smile abruptly turns cruel- and she's falling again- the pieces of her scattering as they hit the ground.

Rickon; reflected in the eyes of his Direwolf- wild, untameable, both born for a North far older, far harsher, far _wilder_ \- broken and betrayed. The babe and his Wildling nursemaid slaughtered, meeting the Old Gods' in death, bloody and violent, at the hands of the smiling man.

He looks to the air, blue winter roses falling all around him, their petals crushed beneath the boot of a father, his daughter lost in the night. His honour commands him, the gauntlet thrown- his foe is fire, and he burns just like the rest.

His view shakes, the ground rumbles- a three-headed dragon roars- a world dying restarts, spinning smoothly.

He beats his wings, and his vision clears.

He's on the ground.

Bran can feel the snow beneath his bare feet, his wings leaving twin trails in the ice as he walks unseen by the light of the moon, drawn to the red-leaved Weirwood tree reaching high into the heavens. He watches, quiet, breathless- as a woman with skin the colour of coffee and eyes as black as coal presses her lips, first to a man with hair of molten silver, then to a woman, a circlet of winter roses adorning her crown.

Beside them in an instant, he watches curious, as the woman unpins a cloak of black and red from the violet-eyed man- in a flourish it's wrapped around the pale shoulders of a woman he knows is none other than his Aunt. The Lady Lyanna.

He hears her then, the dark woman, her voice echoing through the years.

" _In the sight of the Seven and before the Old Gods, I seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity_ _…"_

She pulls a chain from her neck, wrapping it tightly around their joined hands, and with a smile, leans forward and presses her lips to the orange pendant that rests atop their clasped fingers.

He sees it then, the red sun pierced by a golden arrow, her name coming to him in a whisper. _Elia._

" _By the moon, the sun and the stars, I give of you the husband of my heart_ _…_ _Look upon one and other and say the words._ _"_

Their voices sound in unison, and he thinks he's never seen a more wondrous sight, as the red leaves mingle with the falling snow, and the sky turns white.

" _I am hers, and she is mine_ _…_ _from this day, until the end of my days._ _"_

" _I am his, and he is mine_ _…_ _from this day, until the end of my days._ _"_

A breath, and they're gone, in their place stands Robb- strong, unyielding- the young wolf. It scares him, for he sees that with every battle won, Robb loses the war- he wants to scream, Robb's missteps lead him to his death, impaled on the swords of his crown. Still he stands, refusing to bow, refusing to bend- to buckle, beneath the weight of nine black iron broadswords-

He blinks, and Robb is gone- his cousin- brother? Jon, in his place, the nine black iron broadswords rest upon him now- he falters and he's drowning, beneath a rippling red and white sky-

He sees the sky move- the sun sets in the west and rises east, the rivers turn to dust and the mountains bend- he sees Jon, emerging from a pool set aflame-

"Bran!"

Everything stops.

* * *

 **AN:** Here we go.


	3. III - Bend the Knee

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark.

* * *

 **Chapter III –** _Jon_

* * *

He hears Ghost.

Distantly, foggily, as though there's something in his ears and his faithful companion is far away. Jon's eyes open, and all he can see is the strangest wash of colours above him, red, white, smatterings of blue, swirling together in the oddest sensation that makes him wonder if he's looking at the world through frosted glass.

In an instant Jon remembers.

He gasps, water filling his lungs, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as he finally breaks the surface of the reflecting pool- he won't die like this.

Ghost howls as Jon stands, waist deep in black water, teeth chattering in the cold, the first rays of morning sunlight breaking through the Weirwood tree like a promise of something new. Jon thought he'd seen the last of the sun with the White Raven, but he's glad to be proven wrong.

He sees himself then, as the sunlight plays across the water, the boy staring back at him a far cry from the broken man he'd seen in Robb's looking glass. He turns then, a shocked laugh escaping his lips as he sees Ghost, his faithful companion no bigger than he'd been when Jon found him beneath the body of his mother, the little runt struggling to survive.

Jon wonders, in that instant, if he's dead. Again.

He dismisses that thought almost as quickly as it comes to him. Jon knows what death feels like, and it's not this. It's cold and dark… and now, he feels almost… light. As though the weight he's felt upon him since Melisandre worked her magic to bring him back from the brink had been washed away as thoroughly as the years.

Could it be… did he dare believe he's been gifted another chance? Could it be that the Old Gods had answered his prayers? Jon has seen many things in his one and twenty years, he's seen things beyond the wall that he can scarcely believe- wargs and wights and giants, beings of Ice and magic the people of Westeros believe only long enough to dismiss as a fairytale- was it such an inconceivable idea that he, of all people could be gifted a second chance?

 _The North Remembers._

Jon sits back on his heels, smiling slightly as Ghost settles himself on his lap, his mind churning. This chance, this _gift_ … he could change everything. He's fought; for his brothers in the Night's Watch, for the Wildlings at Hardhome, for Sansa and Winterfell... he's lived five years more than anyone, and has five _years_ worth of knowledge to show for it. His father's, Robb's, Rickon's death- all of it had been for _nothing..._ but no more.

His family. All of them, Robb, Rickon, Sansa, Bran, Arya, his Father... Lady Catelyn, they were all alive, not hundreds of meters from where he was standing.

 _This._ This was why he's been given a second chance… to save his family. Jon has never been one for grand declarations, but this, this he would do his damnedest to abide. Ghost rises languishly, taking his time to vacate Jon's lap to allow the boy to stand. He rubs the pup affectionately behind the ears, laughing as he realises he'll have to train his headstrong little runt all over again.

He remembers this day, Jon realises as he leaves the Godswood, Ghost loping at his side. He sees it play out in his mind; his father and the Usurper, atop their horses, riding out at the head of the company, he and Robb, riding far behind them, listening with half an ear as Theon regales them with tales of his whoring-

Jon trips over his feet as he remembers. Theon. _Turncloak_. His mind whispers viciously. He remembers Sansa's words over the watery broth they'd been served at the Wall, how the Ironborn had sought redemption in aiding her escape from the Bolton Bastard. It had remained unspoken then, but it was a fact he was certain they'd not soon forget, the very reason the Bolton's captured Winterfell in the first was because of Theon's greed.

He _knows_ this day. He remembers it with alarming clarity. This, he realises, is the day Bran fell.

Bran was always surefooted. The boy could climb before he could ride and he'd climbed the east watchtower as often as Arya escaped her lessons with her Septa... and not once could Jon recall an instance in which his brother had fell. Until this day.

It's Lady Catelyn he remembers then, her words as born out of grief, but nonetheless scored across his soul.

 _It should have been you._

He's running now, through the Godswood, Ghost galloping silently at his side, the white wolf keeping pace as Jon runs, faster and faster until he's reached the boundary and is sprinting into the lower town, his heart thudding wildly as he sees the King's company in the distance, the thundering hooves of their horses a far off symphony of noise. He dare not stop, his heart beating in fear at the thought of Bran, lying broken and bloody at the bottom of the watchtower.

Jon flies past Sansa, colliding with her roughly as he passes, his mind barely registering how young she is now as she falls gracelessly to the stone. He'll have to apologise to her later, but he cannot stop, for he'll take Sansa's anger if it means Bran will be safe. _Sansa..._ He thinks. She hates him now, his beautiful grown sister, the warrior she'd become erased, a child again, with the hatred she'd inadvertently learnt from her mother returned. His Sansa, he would miss dearly, desperately, his last light in the darkness of his past.

He can see Bran now, his brother scaling the tower with an ease born of practice, the slanted rooftop his brother's favoured spot to watch their Father lead his party from Winterfell. Jon remembers climbing the Wall; the fear he'd felt then, and feels it return tenfold, but for his brother now, the little boy he remembers with so much love never quite the same after the fall.

His heart stutters as he stands beneath the tower, nought a breath in his lungs, his throat tightening as he stares up at his brother, Bran so close to the top that Jon's heart constricts with fear. He hears it then, sounds echoing off the stone, moans, gasps, whimpers of pleasure until they stop, and Jon looks up, his brother frozen at the window. Fear makes him feel like a child again as Bran is grabbed harshly and pushed against the stone, Jon ducks under an eve to avoid being seen, but he hears the voices clearly, and sees Summer pacing below, Jon gripping Ghost tightly to stop his pup from joining his littermate.

" _He saw us!"_

Jon hates that voice, and the voice that follows, for whomever they are, they're the cause of Bran's crippling, and he wants nothing more than to run them through with Longclaw, until he realises he no longer owns Jeor Mormont's ancestral sword, and he has access to nought but the blunted tourney swords he and Robb learnt to fight with. Though he believes in his anger, he could remove their heads from their shoulders with naught but Sansa's knitting needles.

" _The things I do for love."_

His heart stops. His world seeming to pause as he sees Bran buckle, his brother suddenly air born, plummeting to the ground with startling speed that Jon can do no more than throw himself beneath the young Stark, his arms closing around his brother tightly, his knees giving way beneath him, his arms barely strong enough to keep the boy from hitting the ground. He hears Summer and Ghost, yapping loudly, their barks not the booming sound he remembers of his grown white wolf, but youthful, shrill, the sounds of pups. He moves then, placing Bran gently on the ground, splaying him as though he'd hit the ground, and grabs Ghost by the scruff of his neck, the pup easy to lift, though he shan't be for much longer.

Jon's knees ache as he stands quickly, hiding from sight as he watches, anger gnawing at his gut as he sees them leave, the Queen and her Twin, the architects of his brother's previous fate. He watches the Kingslayer kneel beside Bran, harshly kicking Summer aside, his hand hovering over his brother's mouth and Jon prays in that moment that Bran does not breathe.

What seems an eternity after the Kingslayer flees, Jon remains hidden, his heart pounding as he tries futilely to calm his thundering heart, watching as The Queen and The Kingslayer return to Winterfell nonchalantly, as though they hadn't just attacked an heir to the Northern ruling house.

Jon releases Ghost, his pup whining as he nudges Summer carefully with his nose, the light wolf offering a small whimper in response as she gingerly rolls onto her stomach, soon bounding to her feet to join her littermate. Jon falls to his knees beside Bran, his young brother's skin cold, though his breath steady, a small relief to Jon as his brother refuses to wake. A small blessing Jon decides as he lifts Bran gently, his brother tiny in his arms, and hopes, for Bran's sake, he remains that way, for as long as the Lannister's reside within his Lord Father's walls.

Gripping Bran tightly Jon breaks into a run, crossing the distance between the Broken Tower and Winterfell easily, unaware of the eyes that follow him like a hawk as he carries Bran close to his chest.

"Lady Stark!" Jon shouts, the unable to calm the tremor in his voice. Bran may have not hit the ground, but he's unconscious, and Jon fears he'll remain so as long as his sweet brother had before. "Lady Catelyn! Catelyn!" Ignoring propriety in favour of gaining her attention Jon drops her title. "Catelyn!"

"Jon, what on earth-" Maester Luwin stops at the sight of Bran immobile in his arms, his cries of "Lady Stark!" joining Jon's own, until the Lady of Winterfell answers their pleas.

Her breathless cry of " _Brandon!"_ pauses all noise in the training yard, Ser Rodrik raising a fist to stop the men who'd opted to remain behind as the King hunted, Catelyn crossing the open area without care of her safety as she runs for her son.

"What did you do?" She accuses, and Jon flinches. For a moment he'd forgotten her hatred, after being spared it for so long.

"He fell My Lady." He raises his eyes to meet hers, the truth shining clearly in them and he watches her pause. Ser Rodrik appears at their side, protecting them in his Lord Father's name, and Jon knows these men are loyal to House Stark and House Stark alone. "My Lady," Jon starts respectfully, "there are too many ears." And there were, around the yard were men clad in the Lannister red, the Kingsguard gold, squires and Sers alike, and cynically Jon sees them for what they are, spies for those against the good of his House, the House he would again protect with his very life.

Maester Luwin stares at the boy in Jon's arms, and suddenly Jon realises he too is a boy again, and the reason they look upon him so strangely, is that he is acting like a man grown. "My Lady," the Maester whispers, "we must get him inside, I cannot determine what is wrong with him here."

Catelyn looks like she wanted to rage, her eyes as wild as the North she calls home, but instead she nods sternly, her jaw set. "Boy, follow Maester Luwin."

Jon inclines his head, nimbly following the elderly Maester through the stone halls, the eyes of Lannister soldiers and Stark Guards alike watching them, until they're in Bran's room, and Jon's laying his sweet brother on his bed, wrapping him warmly in the furs. Catelyn is beside Bran in a heartbeat, brushing the hair from his eyes, fussing over the furs, her fingers brushing past the pulse point in his neck, and lingering over his mouth, checking for the breath in his lungs, making certain he's still alive.

"Guard the door Ser Rodrik."

Catelyn's order doesn't go unheeded, the old knight faithfully closing the door behind him, Catelyn going as far to lock it before turning to Jon, standing silently beside his brother's bed, watching as Maester Luwin examines Bran. Her steely gaze would have made him wilt had he been but seven and ten, however at one and twenty, he's been Lord Commander of the Nights' Watch, he's seen dead men walk and creatures beyond imagining… his Lord Father's wife simply scared him no more.

"He was pushed My Lady." Jon answers her unasked question. "From the highest window of the east watch tower."

Catelyn glances towards Maester Luwin, who nods. "The boy was always surefooted before My Lady." The elderly Maester looks to Jon. "He shows no signs of the fall?"

"I caught him." Jon replies, the marks on his knees proving his statement true.

Catelyn stares first at his knees, then at her son. Bran is pale and his eyes are still closed. "Then why hasn't he woken?"

Maester Luwin shakes his head. "I cannot tell you My Lady, I simply do not know."

"Boy, did you see…?"

Jon nods, his expression grim. "I did My Lady. It was Ser Jamie Lannister… and the Queen."

* * *

 **AN:** And here we have the Cripple, the Bastard but still no Broken thing.

23/12/2017 - Minor edits, spelling, grammar, point of view. Disclaimer.


	4. IV - Broken Little Bird

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter IV –** _Jon_

* * *

Catelyn makes him leave.

She wants time alone with her son, and so Jon does not protest, though he wishes she would allow him to keep a vigil beside Bran's bed, for he remembers the raven telling of the second attempt on Bran's life had come only days after he'd left for the Wall. Jon knows she hates him, and knows it will take more than he saving Bran's life to change this immutable fact of life.

He wonders if Ser Rodrik sees something in his eyes after, as Jon almost begs for someone to stand guard at the door, because the old Ser doesn't argue, though he is but a boy in this life and not the man he'd become.

Bran will walk again, of that Maester Luwin is certain, though he can not explain the sleep that the little Lord is trapped in. But Jon will take his victories where he can get them, and if Bran's sleep is as it was before, then his brother will wake, it will just take time. Jon wonders if he will always feel the same heart constricting fear he felt when he saw Bran pushed, though he supposes this fear will be what keeps his family safe, because he's already witnessed too many Stark's cut down in his lifetime.

He sees them, their deaths, every time he shuts his eyes, Rickon first, arrow after arrow punching hole after hole in his chest, bleeding out on the ground because Jon was too slow to save him. Robb is next, then their Father, because though he didn't witness their deaths he can still imagine them, and on his darkest days, Arya, Sansa and Bran join them, asking him why he didn't save them, accusing him of wanting their home for himself. Jon had told Sansa of the last, his voice barely above a whisper as he described his dream and she'd laughed, a sweet sound that was marred by the bruises on her face and the scars on wrists, and told him he was more like their Lord Father than she'd ever imagined.

Winterfell is silent as Jon returns to his chambers. The solemn hush that had fallen over the castle when he brought Bran into the training yard shouting for Lady Stark, refuses to lift until the little Lord is declared well. Jon isn't sure what the consequences of the fall will entail; in his last life they'd believed the sleep was a product of the impact, but Bran hadn't hit the ground, and he knows now something else is at work within his brother's mind.

Night has fallen and the Kings hunting party has yet to return to Winterfell, though Jon had not expected them to do so, for he remembers they were gone for days in his last life, and decides he wishes they would return faster, if only so they would leave just as swiftly. Robert Baratheon's visit to Winterfell was the beginning of the end for the Stark's in his last life, and in this life, in his second chance, Jon will see to it that the opposite was true. The rebellion that brought the Usurper to power had produced the very instrument of its downfall, and Jon is going to make sure that in this lifetime, the Stark's will be unharmed.

A lofty goal he knows, but one he will fight for until the very end. He closes his eyes as he shuts his chamber door, resting his head against the solid wood, and offers a silent prayer to the Old Gods that they'll see his family through. Jon hasn't seen this room in five years; when they'd retaken Winterfell, Sansa made him take Robb's chambers as they were the only rooms left untouched by the Bastard Bolton. Jon almost refuses to open his eyes and turn, certain when he does he'll find himself staring into the looking glass, with Robb's crown upon his head and his family dead.

He isn't given a choice, the cool kiss of steel at his neck making his decision for him and his eyes open in shock. He hadn't expected an attack in his chambers of all places, and finds himself feeling rather foolish with his life again, at the mercy of another. He's forced to turn around, and finds himself staring into eyes of Tully blue, Sansa looking every inch the warrior he knew and not the girl she is now as she holds him at knifepoint.

For a moment he simply stares, this had not happened in his last life, and he couldn't fathom what had- Jon stops. It was her eyes that cause him pause, eyes that no girl of three and ten should have, eyes of a woman who'd been broken over and over again until she no longer held all the pieces to put herself back together.

"We know no King," Sansa's voice trembles as she speaks, "but the King in the North, whose name is Stark." Jon finishes, and she crumbles, the knife she wielded clattering to the stone, Sansa following until Jon catches her in much the same way he'd caught Bran, one arm beneath her knees, and the other cradling her head. She lets out a breathless sob, and they're back at the Wall, clinging desperately to each other, scarcely believing the other alive.

"I knew it was you, I knew it was." Sansa whispers, her grip tight around Jon's shoulders, his broken sister unwilling to let him go. Jon knows what she's remembering, because he is too, when they'd sat in front of his fire and wished they'd never left home. "I saw you catch Bran, I saw you save our brother's life and I knew it was you."

"Sansa." He smiles, "My Sansa."

Jon's not sure how she's here, he's not completely certain he's even here really, but he'll take his blessings where he can get them and with Sansa by his side, a part of him feels he cannot lose. While he'd fought wights and Wildlings, she'd fought Lions and flayed men, and survived among them longer than anyone.

"Last night I retired as a widow twice over, as the last Stark in Winterfell, as a woman of nine and ten," Sansa whispers, her voice gaining strength as she speaks, "and this morning I woke as a girl, with none of the scars I gained from other's hands. Jon, if this is a dream, please, I don't wish to wake."

Jon holds her tightly, she's so much smaller than he remembers, but in his last life he hadn't much to do with his eldest sister, for she'd held her mother's hatred, therefore his only comparison is the woman she'd become after years apart. "Sansa, if this is a dream, I will not wake you, for I do not wish to wake myself."

Sansa is silent for a time, and Jon wonders where her mind is wandering. He's thinking of the choice that led him far from home, the choice that had led him to his death at the hands of his sworn brothers. He wonders if she's thinking of the South, of Kings Landing and all she'd suffered there, and the thought of doing it all over again. They had only just reclaimed their home, they fought so hard to return, sacrificed so many lives so they would be the Stark's in Winterfell once more… and now, young again, they were both slated to leave once again.

"I spent so many years, wishing, praying, hoping to return to Winterfell, and when I did, it was on the arm of the man who betrayed our father, the same man who sold me to the Lord who killed our brother." Sansa will not cry for her past, for it had been washed away with the years. "I escaped with a man who sought to kill our littlest brothers, but deigned to save me. The day I saw you at the Wall was the best of my life, because I knew you would fight for me and for our home, until your last breath. Then you were crowned King in the North and I knew, this would be our chance to wreak our revenge on those who did our family harm."

"This morn I woke as a girl again, a silly, _stupid_ little girl, with a head full of fantasies wherein gallant Knights and proud Princes would sweep me off my feet in the South and I would live happily ever after." She turns to him then, sliding out of his arms and crouching before him on her knees, her blue dress dirtied by the dust on his chamber floor. "Jon, I remember this day, and the days that followed, I have dreamt of these days over and over, wishing every time I could go back and beg Father not to go South. We would be safe here Jon, you caught Bran, our little brother will walk again, and he can become the Knight he always dreamt of being, we can watch Rickon grow, and you and Robb can teach Arya to wield her Needle, and Mother and _Father_ ," She sighs, a beautiful smile lighting her lips, "They can grow old, together, with their family safe before them."

Jon is silent as Sansa grips his hands tightly, her smile disappearing, a lone tear caressing her cheekbone and lingering at the side of her mouth. "That is the fantasy I dreamt of while caged in Kings Landing… and that is what it will remain."

"Sansa." He sighs, he wants to protect her, as an older brother should, but she no longer needs his protection, if she ever did.

She smiles sadly. "My truest protector."

"It doesn't have to be a fantasy... we can change it, we can change it all." Jon whispers and as he wipes her tears he suddenly feels like a child, more so than ever.

"Do you remember what Father used to say to us, every night before we slept?" Sansa asks.

Jon nods, slowly repeating the words their Father whispered to them when the night was dark and the shadows reigned. "When the snow falls and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

"When the snow falls and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." Sansa echoes. "We could live and die in Winterfell Jon, and we would be so happy here, and if I truly believed we would _all_ be safe, I would never leave our castle walls. I survived among the Lions longer than anyone Jon, and if it means that we can change it, if it means that Father and Mother, that Robb and Arya and Rickon will live, I will walk into Kings Landing with a smile."

Jon realises it then. This, is Sansa's chance. She'd learnt the Game of Thrones at Cersei Lannister's side, at Margery Tyrell's heel, and how to lose at Joffrey Baratheon's back. Her time in Kings Landing had changed her, she'd become a victim at their hands, and grown into a Warrior when their attention had wavered, becoming the master of her own fate the instant she chose to jump from the battlements at Winterfell. "You want to play the Game of Thrones."

Her answering smile would send shivers down the spines of lesser men. "You win or you die Jon." Sansa stands, and helps him to his feet, the knife she wielded at his neck palmed in her hand. She spins, the knife leaving her hand in a beautiful arch, and Jon stares as it impacts his bed frame with a solid _thump_ , the tip embedded deep in the wood. She turns to him then, Tully blue eyes dark with malice. "And I have no intention of dying."

* * *

 **AN:** And here, we find our Broken Thing.

23/12/2017 - Minor edits, spelling, grammar, point-of-view. Disclaimer.


	5. V - The Kingsroad

**Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things.**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter V –** _Sansa_

* * *

Though her home lay leagues behind her, she can't help but glance over her shoulder for a glimpse of Winterfell with every step her Destrier, Noble, takes toward Kings Landing. With every day upon the Kingsroad, Sansa regrets her decision to leave the safety of her home, and the comfort of Jon's presence. She misses her brother greatly, they'd spent so long at each other's sides after being reunited at the Wall, that it feels odd to be parted from him, with no promise they would meet again. She grips Nobel's reins tightly, the Crossroads Inn looms on the horizon, innocuous and unremarkable, but forever a reminder of the Lannister's cruelty.

Arya rides beside her, silent, her wild sister refusing to utter more than a few words in her direction since Sansa pleaded for their Direwolves to remain in Winterfell, under Jon's tender care. She wishes she could explain her fear to her sister, but Arya would not listen, her younger sister furious and betrayed by Sansa's words to their Lord father. Sansa suspected Arya thought she'd acted out of spite, but she would take her sister's anger without argument, if it meant she would not have to see Lady's pelt decorating Joffrey's chamber floor. Sansa had heard stories from the Riverlands as she travelled to the Vale, of the monstrous wolf pack that savaged Lannister soldiers and Deserters alike, and wonders now if that pack had been led by Arya's Nymeria, for the Direwolf disappeared from the Inn up ahead, much as Arya did from Kings Landing.

It mattered not now, Sansa supposes, for their Direwolves are safe behind Winterfell's walls, and will thrive in the North they were born, protecting the family that carried their likeness as their sigil. She wonders if her brothers would lead them into war, should it become necessary for Robb to call his Bannermen to arms once again. She remembers fondly the tales in the courtroom, of the men who shook in their armour as they described the Young Wolf's companion, the giant wolf Grey Wind, who fought with the strength of fifty men, and killed more of Tywin Lannister's soldiers than the North combined. Sansa doesn't hide her vicious smile as she imagines Jon, more Wildling than Northerner now, with Ghost at his side and Nymeria and Lady at his back, her brother as savage as their Direwolves with a sword in his hand, and imagines the fear they would inspire in the prancing Southern soldiers.

She almost wishes the Seven Kingdoms were at war, if only to witness the havoc her Pack would produce, until she remembers the reason Robb called his Bannermen in her last life, and curses her thirst for vengeance all the more.

"Why are you smiling Sansa?" Arya makes her name sound like a curse, and Sansa can't deny the sharp pain it causes, her wild sister hating her so. She guessed Arya thought her more Southern than Northern now, even though, to Arya's knowledge, she'd never set foot outside of Winterfell's borders. "Are you thinking of your Golden Prince and spawn you'll have as his Queen?"

"I couldn't think of anything worse." Sansa mumbles, too softly for anyone to truly hear, the idea of having Joffrey Lannister's offspring just as repulsive as it had been the first time she bled. "I'm thinking of our home sister." She answers louder, "and when we will see it again."

Sansa sees Arya's reaction to her answer and the shock it causes, realising only then she'd spent so long idolising the South as a child, that her family truly had no cause to suspect she'd wish to come home. "I thought you'd never want to return after seeing the South." Arya replies, and Sansa wishes to tell her sweet sister how wrong she is, and how little she truly wants to return to the South that caused her such pain but there's many ears on the Kingsroad, and she's already made one snide remark against the Prince. There was danger in such remarks, and she would have to fight to hold her tongue, for Sansa has no desire to end up like Ser Illyn, or the musician Joffrey heard mocking him.

"Winterfell is my home Arya… it will always be my home."

Arya is silent after Sansa's reply, and she regrets her childhood all the more, and the hatred she'd surely inspired in her sister, with all her talk of Gallant Knights and Silver Princes and her wishes to leave their Northern home. Sansa knows the brat she was now, she knows the pain she caused her father, with her wishing for nothing more than to leave, and the aloofness from her siblings, which caused her to never really know her little brothers. She tightens her reins with anger, Noble shaking his head against her grip as she thinks of her littlest sibling. Rickon had never truly lived, the babe too young to know his family truly, other than their love for him, before her Bastard husband had shot him down, the sight of arrow after arrow punching through his chest whilst she sat idly on her horse, not something she would ever forget. Nor forgive.

Sansa holds her head high as she receives the disgusted stares from the Southern Ladies who've travelled to meet the Queen, that she rides atop Noble instead of inside a wheelhouse as every other noble lady a clear sign of the North's savagery. She'd shocked her family with her choice to ride, her Lady Mother suggesting she take the Queen's offer of a seat in the wheelhouse, but Sansa had insisted, she would ride beside Arya. Only Jon hadn't questioned her decision to ride, offering support with a soft spoken reminder to their Lord Father of their Aunt Lyanna, and _her_ passion for riding. Sansa looked to her father in that moment, the agony that darkened his expression was fleeting, but telling nonetheless, whatever secret he hid Sansa didn't know and fought the unease such a realisation produced. Secrets are currency, and she's saved her own life many a time by collecting them, using them as necessary to ensure her survival.

Sansa offers Jory a sweet smile as he appears at her side, taking Noble's reins and offering to help her to the ground. With her feet on the ground once more, Sansa brushes off her dress, smothering a smile as Arya vaults from Bear with ease, hesitating as Jory holds out a hand for Bear's reins. Her sister glances longingly towards the trails, and Sansa recognises the mischief burning in Arya's eyes, the only tell her wild sibling had before causing all kinds of trouble.

"Bear needs to rest little Underfoot." Jory chastises lightly, "Explore the river if you must, but leave your Bear with me."

Arya grins sheepishly as she tosses Bear's reins to Jory. Sansa barely restrains her own smile as she watches Arya make for the trails, her dress hitched above her knees as she runs. Sansa's thoughts darken again as she remembers what had happened aside the river in her last life, and decides she'll lead Joffrey elsewhere, should he accost her for her company again. She follows Jory with her eyes as he leads their Destriers to the stables, until he disappears from sight and she's alone, truly alone, for the first time since she awoke in Winterfell. She misses Jon in that instant, and wishes they had more of an opportunity to discuss their plans other than keeping their Father from the block and their Brother from the Twins. It was hard for them to be seen in close quarters without being questioned, for as a child she'd held her Mother's hatred of Jon, though she never truly understood how her Mother could hate the boy who looked so much like her Lord Husband. Sansa took to sneaking from her chambers when she knew the entirety of Winterfell were asleep to avoid their prying eyes, stealing into Jon's chambers to talk about the opportunity they'd been gifted.

The tents the Southerners erected for the King's party were the same as her last life, garish and extravagant, though she notices the simpering southern ladies who wish to rule by the Prince's side are far bolder with their glares. She supposes without Lady by her side they think her vulnerable, but she's been through much, and their glares don't hurt like they did in her last life. She doesn't covet their complicated hairstyles, their embroidered dresses or gold jewellery, Sansa's proud of how Northern she is now, with her simple braids and pale woollen dress, decorated with her tied Winter Roses.

Sansa stops abruptly, her path blocked by Ser Illyn, her first instinct to take the knife Jon insisted she keep strapped to her thigh, and slit the throat of the man who removed her Father's head from his shoulders.

"Pardon me Ser." She whispers, unable to stop her body from shaking, anger coursing fiercely through her veins.

A gauntleted hand on her shoulder prompts her to turn, Joffrey's dog, Sandor Clegane filling her vision now. Clegane confused her, he'd offered her protection when he had no cause to do so, yet he'd kept her chained at Joffrey's command. At times the Hound was a good man, of that Sansa was certain and wonders if she could inspire within him complete loyalty to her, rather than the Crown.

"Do I frighten you so much girl?" The Hound asks, and Sansa glances at the hand still resting upon her shoulder, deciding then she had nothing to lose if her manipulation of him failed. "Or is it him there making you shake? He frightens me too, look at that face."

Sansa doesn't stop the smile that crosses her lips at the jest, clearly surprising the Hound, who no doubt expected her to turn. But she would not apologise to the man who'd carried out her Father's sentence, nor would she apologise for the fate she will see him meet. She hears Ser Illyn growl, and watches him leave over the Hound's shoulder, her attention now solely on the man who had wiped the blood from her lips on more than one occasion.

"May I have your name Ser?" Sansa asks, her demure Northern Lady act familiar, even after so long.

"I am no Ser." He growls.

Sansa raises an eyebrow. "Your name then?"

"I call him the Hound, though my father prefers dog."

She barely hides her frustration at Joffrey's intrusion, and knows Clegane is watching closely as she schools a sweet smile onto her lips, turning to greet her betrothed with a curtsy.

"Your Grace."

"My Lady." Joffrey smiles, and Sansa remembers why she was so captivated by him as a girl… and how quickly that captivation turned to revulsion when he showed his true colours. He touched her chin, and she fought the disgust such an action produced. "What is it sweetling? Does the Hound frighten you? Away with you dog, you're scaring my Lady."

Sansa hears him leave, the clinking noise of his armour disappears into that of the crowded Crossroads Inn, and gives Joffrey a smile, demure and elegant, every bit the perfect Southern Lady the Queen Mother had taught her to be.

"I don't like to see you upset." Joffrey continues, and Sansa finds him rather awkward this time around, rather than smooth and charming as she had believed as a girl. "The sun's finally shining… come walk with me."

Sansa nods, and gives him a rather pointed stare when he fails to offer her his arm. It's amusing she decides, the way Joffrey falls over himself to do so as he realises his breach of etiquette. She takes his arm, her hand resting daintily in the crook his elbow, her smile faked and her skin crawling. She knew now how to play him like a puppeteer would their puppet, the game only just beginning as smiles up at him.

"Would you show me the Inn your Grace? I haven't the chance to explore it yet and I'm sure you know it well with all your travels?"

Joffrey preens with her words and Sansa's smile turns to stone, she was not the girl she once was, and she would not be broken beneath his fingertips this time... she was a Wolf, and this time, the Pack would survive. Later when Sansa catches a glimpse of the Butcher's Boy during the feast that eve, she offers Arya a secretive smile. Right now, Cersei Lannister believed she held the winning hand… and Sansa couldn't wait to prove her wrong.

* * *

 **AN:** Any recogniseable lines belong exclusively to the HBO TV Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire.


	6. VI - Elia

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter VI –** _Bran_

* * *

He wanders.

Silent and unseen his physical body remains tucked beneath a pile of furs, his Lady Mother keeping a vigil at his side, as faithfully devoted as she'd been in his last life. She's ignorant to his presence even though he kneels before her, his lips as he presses them against her clasped hands are simply a chill, for his Mother holds no magic of his own to see him in this form.

Bran sees Winterfell differently now. He's the Three-eyed Raven, in this life now, just as he was in his last and he sees the scars left behind by the Turncloak and his Ironborn raiders, by traitor Roose Bolton and his Bastard son... the blood stains decorating the walls like some kind of macabre artwork. Bran lingers in the main hall, his fingertips dripping crimson, until he blinks and it's gone, and all he sees is magic, green veins of it winding through the stonework, the touch of Bran the Builder and his Forest wife.

Bran can't quite describe it, the beauty of it all, the intricate way the ancient protective magic is woven through the blocks of stone, through the walls and across the floors, strengthened season by season by the Stark bloodline and by magic that lingered from the Children of the Forest. He understands now, why his Lord Father, why his Lord Grandfather, why every generation before his own could not access their gifts the way he and his siblings could… the bonds they share with their Direwolves strengthen their connection to the deep North, to the Children of the Forest that still exist beyond the Wall. Bran knows Summer, his precious Direwolf has a magic all of her own, wild, savage magic, not unlike Leaf's, that he hadn't understood until he begun to access the gifts that were dormant in his blood… until he _fell_.

Bran wanders as he did in his last life, though he knows that in this one, he will never again do so at Bloodraven's side. He felt Brynden's passing as he fell, the old crow releasing the power of the Three-Eyed Raven in a dizzying wave of incomprehensible visions. He knows now, his destiny is not Beyond the Wall like it was in his last life, but somewhere entirely different, though Bran knows not where… but suspects he'll be needed just as fiercely. It's odd, wandering in this form. Occasionally he notices he has wings, massive and black feathered, they sometimes trail behind him, other times they hold him aloft, and he views the world from above. Bran oft wonders if anyone can see him in this form, he tests it with Jon, standing just at the edge of his brother's vision, not entirely unsurprised when his cousin turns, searching for someone he can't really see. He watches as Robb laughs, Jon's confusion at finding no one clearly amusing their eldest brother.

" _Now I understand why you didn't make for the Wall brother, your eyesight is worse than Old Nan's!"_

Jon lands a light punch on Robb's arm, and Bran withdraws, hearing Jon's retort clearly as he fades, _"I couldn't leave you here on your own, you'd cry every day I was gone!"_ he's in the crypts now, before his Aunt Lyanna, her stone caste revealing none of her infinite secrets and answering none of his many questions. Bran wants to know if she knew, if she knew a war would follow her choice, if she knew Jon's birth and the subsequent joining of two ancient magical bloodlines would have such a far reaching affect, if she knew her actions would have consequences.

Bran reaches out and finds himself not touching stone as he expected, but nothing at all, for he's no longer in the crypts, staring at the caste of his long dead aunt, but up at a castle he recognises as Harrenhal. He's moving toward the stands erected around the tiltyard, drawn to the noise of the gathered crowd like a moth to a flame. Bran knows what this is when he sees the Mad King scowling upon his ornate throne, when he sees his Lord Father, and beside him, Lyanna, in all her glory, laughing aside a boy Bran knows could only be Benjen. Bran looks to the Mad King, his beard unkempt, his teeth blackened and his nails yellow, he sees the Queen at the King's side, stoic and regal, and the babe Viserys in her lap, who would grow to become the Beggar King. He sees them all, half long dead, half soon to be, and he wonders what it is he's supposed to see, because this isn't his past to change, this here, is set in stone.

The crowd roars with approval as two riders enter from opposite ends of the tiltyard, arms aloft they wave to the cheering patrons, almost bashful compared to the rest of the prancing Southern Knights. Bran follows them from his place against the stands, one bedecked in the golden armour of the Kingsguard, this Knight he knows, could only be Ser Barristan Selmy, but the other, resplendent in armour as black as the cloaks of the Night's Watch, glittering rubies forming a three-headed dragon on his chest, is Rhaegar Targaryen… Jon's father. He watches Lyanna then, the way her eyes follow the Prince's every movement, hears her gasp upon the wind as he's struck with Ser Barristan's lance, how she leans over the railing as Rhaegar's handed a new lance, her eyes alight as he removes his helm, his liquid silver hair and violet eyes revealed to the realm. Bran holds his breath as the Knights charge, though he knows the result he prays for Rhaegar to fall, even as Ser Barristan hits the ground, he wishes for a different ending, but as Rhaegar rides his victory lap, Bran knows this is not to be changed.

Bran stands aside the Mad King now, watching as Queen Rhaella smiles brightly at her eldest son as he passes, bouncing the babe, Viserys in her lap, the Mad King clapping sullenly at her side. A squire hands Rhaegar a circlet of blue winter roses, the realm seems to slow before Bran's eyes, as the Silver Prince rides past his Lady Wife, and the smiles die.

" _Lady Lyanna,"_ Rhaegar proclaims, _"I would crown thee, my Queen of Love and Beauty."_

Beside Lyanna now, Bran sees the adoration in Rhaegar's eyes, as though his Aunt had hung the moon in the sky, and simply cannot understand how the realm could believe Rhaegar had stolen her away, defiled her and left her to die, as he fell at the Trident.

" _Thank you my Prince._ " Lyanna whispers, and Bran stands alone in the middle of the tiltyard, watching as the crowds disperse in a blur, the realm moving too fast for him to see any details, though he knows he is not done here, for there is more for him to learn. His visions as the Three-Eyed Raven come with Knowledge, and yet he has not learnt anything he did not know before he was pulled here. Bran feels his wings expand, the world slows and he's beside the throne the Mad King sat upon, it's polished stone instead of iron swords, the crest of the Dragon carved into the back, and remembers what Bloodraven had whispered, one night when he thought Bran asleep.

"The dragon has three heads."

Bran turns, surprised when a familiar voice speaks behind him, the words he heard Bloodraven whisper so long ago once again said aloud.

"Hello young Brandon, I have been waiting for you."

Bran knows her then, if only from a dream, the dark-eyed, coffee coloured beauty who'd joined Lyanna and Rhaegar as one. "Elia." He breathes, and wonders how she can see him, until he sees the green ring around her irises, and knows in that instant, that she's like him.

"You're a Greenseer," he raises an eyebrow in confusion, "here I thought that was a Northern gift."

"A Northern Gift indeed, there may be more of us in the North young Brandon, but there are few among us in the South too." She grins, and Bran finds her quite beautiful. "The Children of the Forest didn't only become Starks young Raven, they became Martell's too, and through them, I am what I am." Elia steps towards him, and takes a seat upon the stands, beckoning him to do the same. He sits beside her and she is silent for a time, her voice quiet as she recounts her tale. "When I came to Kings Landing, it was expected that I would be the perfect Southern Princess, the wife of the would-be King, worry naught that I was raised in Dorne, and held none of the same prejudices they held in the South. None expected me to retain the values of my people… none, except my Lord Husband, my Rhaegar."

Bran nods. "You were a Martell of Dorne, long before you became a Targaryen of Kings Landing."

Elia smiles. "I saw your Lyanna, long before she had set foot outside of Winterfell and long before I stepped foot outside of Sunspear… I dreamt of her my entire life, I was beside her as she learnt to ride, to fight, to pick the locks on her chamber door, I was beside from her first breath to her last, though she knew me as nothing more than a whisper on the wind."

He understands then. "You love her."

She nods. "I fell in love with Lyanna Stark, before I even knew what love was. And when I met Rhaegar, I fell in love with him too, and my visions changed. I saw us ruling as the Targaryen's of Old, _both_ of us at Rhaegar's side."

Pieces of the puzzle fall into place for Bran as Elia speaks, and knows then what none who knew his Aunt's fate had truly discovered… Lyanna was hidden in Dorne, not, as the realm assumed to spite his Dornish Wife, but to please her, for Elia loved Lyanna as fiercely as Rhaegar himself. He watches then as her gaze finds the Prince as he steps into the tiltyard, eyes searching for the woman who's always been at his side, smiling as he sees her, and Bran looks, really looks at the man who would've been King, had things turned out differently, and smiles. For Rhaegar looks to Elia as though she's hung the sun in the sky.

Elia doesn't return his smile as she stands, and her eyes caught on her beloved, and Bran wonders how long she's waited in this moment. "I didn't know our actions would start a war." She whispers, and Bran knows she's truly sorry for what their actions caused. "We wanted peace, the Seven Kingdoms truly untied once more, Dorne and the North truly within the fold, we dreamt of ruling as Aegon did, with his sister wives at his side." She shakes her head, and clasps Rhaegar's hand, the Silver Prince frozen in this moment as she stares up at him, and Bran sees the same love in her eyes as his. "I would have hung the sun in the sky for them, just as they would have hung the moon and the stars for me."

Bran blinks, and Elia's gone, and he sees Lyanna's stone caste once more, his heart clenching tightly as he realises the stonework doesn't do her justice, for there's no starlight in her eyes, and she's alone here, without the great loves she risked everything for.

He's in his chambers again, staring out his window as the Sept catches alight, the flames reaching high into the air. He sees Robb racing towards the flames, Theon _Turncloak_ and Ser Roderick at his left and right, pails of water in their hands as they attempt to quench the roaring flames. He turns then as the door bursts open, the Queen's assassin, Valyrian Steel dagger in hand, stops at the sight of his Lady Mother.

" _You weren't supposed to be here."_ The man smiles a twisted grin, attacking swiftly and Catelyn dodges the first swipe by a hair, catching the second in her palms, the Valyrian Steel blade cuts through her flesh like butter. Bran reaches out for her, but catches air; he can't touch her in this state. He's relieved when Jon barrels through the open door, out of breath, but not stopping as he catches the assassin around the waist, and they crash to the ground, the Valyrian blade skittering out of sight on the stone. Catelyn cradles her hands to her chest, and the assassin jumps to his feet with a nimbleness no one had expected. The man advances on Jon, but stops at the fiercesome sight before him. Summer takes advantage of his distraction and Bran watches proudly as his precious Direwolf tears at the man's throat, his screams drowned by the viscous growl of Bran's wolf.

He feels himself fading then, his young body calling him home, and he wakes, upright in his bed, breath returning to his body as it left his would-be assassins'. His Lady Mother gasps and Bran looks to his brother, unmoving where he'd fallen, unaware entirely to the magic that sparkled in his now violet eyes, the ghost of his father alight in the fire of the hearth where he'd landed, carried by his own momentum. Bran looks to his Mother and sees the realisation in her eyes, the guilt that flares to life there, as she finds that not only had she been unable to love a motherless child, but a fatherless one too.

"Set me aflame," She whispers, her bloody hands cradled to her chest, "for fire cannot harm a Dragon."

* * *

 **AN:** I love writing Bran, simply because no matter what I plan for him, I always seem to go in a completely different direction, which is absolutely fascinating to me. I would like to say a big thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favorited and followed this story, I write for my own enjoyment, so to know others enjoy my work as well is honestly so humbling. I can't thank you all enough.

07/01/2018 - Minor edits, spelling, grammar, point of view. Disclaimer


	7. VII - You Know Nothing Jon Snow

**Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter VII –** _Jon_

* * *

In an instant his world… stops. He's staring at his hand, partially buried in Bran's hearth, red-hot coals pressing against his palm and flames licking at his skin and feels… nothing. Not the heat of the flame as it kisses his skin, not the smoldering coals that glow orange beneath his fingertips. He sits, his left hand aflame, and remains remarkably unburnt.

Jon watches with a curious sort of detachment as Bran speaks, his lips moving silently and Jon longs to hear his younger brother's voice, for all he can hear is his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. His attention is drawn back to the flames that dance across his skin, and he swears he can see Yigrette, smirking from within them, because he knows then she was always right when she claimed he knew nothing at all.

He watches Bran move then, his legs as perfect as when he was a babe, and Jon is glad, for it seems he's done something right with his first chance to change it all, and watches his young brother kneel at his Lady Mother's side. Catelyn meets his eyes, her shock visible, her pain palpable and Jon looks back towards the fire, finding little comfort there as he watches impossible figures dance among the coals.

Jon wonders then, as he looks to Bran, kneeling at Catelyn's side, if his brother… if his half-brother… is even that at all. He wishes for Sansa, that she weren't leagues away in Kings Landing and instead at his side, for she has a way of making even his darkest of nights seem light again. He needs her now, because he's scared, truly frightened of the truth revealed in the fire crawling across his skin and the confirmation in Catelyn's eyes. He remembers the stories he heard as a child, when he and Robb would sneak from their chambers to listen to the servants in the kitchen gossip and spin tales of the Usurper's war, how the honorable Lord Eddard fell pray to a Dornish maiden's charms, and how the Silver Prince had been so captivated by his Aunt Lyanna, he took her for himself.

Could it be that he weren't Eddard's son at all… but Lyanna's? A child born of treachery and war… a child… born of _rape_?

Jon's hand is wrenched from the flames and Robb is on his knees, gripping his hand, searching for a burn that isn't there. Jon finds one though, as he looks at Robb's hand, and finds it blistering and burnt, and realises Robb pulled him from the flames, acquiring the burn that should be been his. His heart thunders in his ears and Robb's lips move, and Jon can't- he lurches to his feet, knocking Robb aside, and runs, his world suddenly moving all too fast, and he collapses at the foot of the Heart Tree he awoke to his second life beneath.

"Jon!"

Jon can't breathe, he feels like he's going to be sick, and he is, the contents of his stomach leaving him in a rush as he realises what he is. A Bastard, Rape-spawn, the lowest of the low… and he'd been raised alongside highborn Lords and Ladies. Suddenly he doesn't blame Catelyn for her hatred, for he feels the same revulsion bubbling in his chest.

"Jon."

He feels someone kneel at his side, their hands on his back, and for a moment he thinks it's Sansa, but instead it's Bran, just as Jon remembers him in his last life, impossibly small, all dark hair and grey eyes, exactly like himself. Jon's stomach lurches again, and he pitches forward. Bran rubs soothing circles on his back, and Jon wishes he wouldn't because his sweet brother doesn't understand, he's too young to know he shouldn't be anywhere near him.

"Go Bran. You shouldn't be here." Jon croaks, and hopes his young brother obeys. He can't reconcile himself with the truth of his birth, and the purpose he sacrificed himself for… he came back to save his family, but it was the actions of his true Father and his subsequent birth that set his family upon the path to their destruction. He thought back to the man he saw in Robb's looking glass, the broken crown that rested upon his head, and realises he's even less deserving than he first believed.

Bran stills. "We know no King," he whispers, "but the King in the North, whose name is Stark."

Jon looks to his brother, shock overtaking revulsion in that instant and sees Bran is on his feet now, examining the face carved into the Heart Tree with interest. He watches as the formerly crippled boy bounces on the balls of his feet, the moss beneath his boots springing him higher.

"I can't get used to this." Bran grins, hopping from foot to foot. "I spent so long crawling, or being dragged by Meera, or being carried by Hodor-" He stops, and Jon wonders what he's thinking. "Hold the door." He whispers, and shakes his head. "Hodor's alive now, so is Jojen and I can _walk._ You did this. My brother Jon, my hero."

Jon flinches. "I'm not your brother."

Bran stops bouncing. "You have my blood, and I have yours. Your parents might not be who you thought they were Jaehaerys Targaryen, but you are my brother. In all the ways that matter, you are my brother, you taught me to ride, to shoot a bow and hold a sword, what do I care that we don't share a mother? I loved you when you believed you were a bastard, and I will love you now, when I know you are not."

Jon sits back on his heels, looks up at Bran, and wonders what happened to his brother in the time since they last met so long ago in Winterfell, and Sam informed him that Bran had ventured beyond The Wall. It occurs to him then that he doesn't know the man his brother has become, for all he remembers is the boy who chased after Arya when she proved her skill with the bow and arrow. He doesn't know Bran, though he loves him as fiercely as he did in his last life- Jon realises then what Bran tried to explain. He still though of Bran, of Robb, of Rickon, of Sansa and Arya as his siblings, no matter the truth revealed in the flames. His Lord Father, _Eddard_ , raised Jon alongside his trueborn children, raised him to believe that Eddard Stark was his father, and Jon knows then that the circumstances of his birth didn't matter, not to Eddard seventeen years ago, not now the truth was revealed… because Eddard's the only father Jon's ever known..

Bran's beside the reflecting pool now, gazing into the dark depths, and Jon moves, standing beside his brother, his inner turmoil soothed by Bran's unquestioning acceptance.

"You had no idea of the power you invoked the night you were crowned King in the North."

Jon pauses, raising an eyebrow at Bran's words.

Bran gestures to their reflections in the pool, and Jon startles, for the reflection he sees is the man he became in his last life, strong, scarred, the broken crown on his head representing the fractured place the North had become. He looks to Bran's reflection in the pool and sees his brother grew to be as tall as himself, his reflection standing strong, despite Bran's crippling in their last life.

"I could always walk in my visions, though it never felt as real as this does." Bran whispers. "Occasionally I had wings, and I would fly, but I preferred walking… it was a luxury I didn't have outside of my visions in our last life."

Jon has so many questions, and wonders just how many answers Bran truly has. "I don't understand."

Bran lets out a piercing whistle, and Jon smiles as he spots their Direwolves slinking towards them, padding in and out of shadows, stealthy even as pups. Bran kneels and is immediately set upon by Summer and Nymeria, Lady and Ghost padding toward Jon in a dignified manner that was entirely Sansa.

"In our last life, when I was thrown from the tower, my body hit the ground, but my mind wandered." Bran reaches toward Lady, but the white wolf skitters away from him, slinking behind Ghost. "When Lady was put to death, I awoke, and magic was satisfied."

Bran's explanation sounds familiar to Jon, and as Ghost nudges at his side, he remembers the scars Orell and his eagle left behind and the tales Tormund would spin of Wildlings Beyond the Wall who could share the bodies of their bonded animal. But Lady wasn't Bran's, and Jon didn't understand. "You Warged into Lady?"

Bran shakes his head. "I was in all of them… and none of them at all. What do you know of Greenseers?"

Jon shakes his head, he's never heard the term.

"You know of Wargs?" Bran asks, and Jon nods. "You can be a Warg but not a Greenseer, but you cannot be a Greenseer and not a Warg. When Brandon the Builder took a wife, he took a Child of the Forest as his Bride, and when they had children, her magic became a part of our bloodline. That magic laid dormant for centuries… until you found six Direwolves, one for each of the Stark children, and her magic awakened in our blood, strengthened by the magic of our wolves." Jon looks to Ghost, his red-eyed wolf curled in his lap, and remembers every dream in which he's seen through his Direwolf's eyes. "When the Turncloak took Winterfell, we intended to flee to Castle Black, and every night we slept I dreamt of a raven, until a boy came to me in my dreams, and told me my destiny lie further North."

"Beyond the Wall."

Bran nods. "Beyond the Wall. I sent Rickon-" He stops and Jon can hardly breathe, for the first time since his brother awoke, Bran truly looks his age. "I sent Rickon to the Umbers. Jon, I swear, I didn't know… I thought he would be safe, Smalljon he, he was loyal to Robb, I thought-" He shakes his head, and Jon understands. Smalljon was Robb's second, his father, the man who named Robb King in the North… the Umbers were their most loyal Bannermen and Jon couldn't fathom their reasons for betraying Rickon to the Boltons.

"It will be different this time." Jon whispers, but he can't look at his brother, because it wasn't Bran who was too slow to save Rickon, it was him. He failed Rickon, not Bran.

"Have you been Beyond the Wall?" Bran asks, and Jon watches him shake his head. "Of course you have, you were a Crow, but how far did you go brother? Did you go far enough to find Brynden River's last resting place? No, I know you didn't… I would have _seen._ "

"Seen?"

Bran grins, and Jon understands.

"You're a Greenseer."

"I'm the Three-Eyed Raven. I see all that is, all that was and all that could ever be. I have seen days long past, days long forgotten and days that will never come, I watched as Rhaegar crowned Lyanna as his Queen of Love and Beauty, and I watched Elia marry them beneath the Heart Tree at Harrenhal. I watched our Father battle Ser Arthur Dane, I watched him cry as he held you in is arms and Lyanna breathed her last. I watched Rhaegar fall, and I watched you rise, as Lord Commander and then as King. I saw Father executed and Robb murdered, I saw Sansa break and Arya become… _something_ else, I watched Rickon fall and my Mother _bleed_. I watched our family scatter and the Lannister's survive amongst it _all_." Bran sneered. "I watched, for five years as our family crumbled… and for five years I could do nothing but watch."

"But you," Bran whispers and leans forward, dipping his fingertips into the black water of the Reflecting Pool, "you, I didn't expect."

Jon watches as the water ripples across the pond, and remembers waking, his lungs wet, his vision a blurred kaleidoscope, scarless and five years younger. He remembers drowning… and the weight of Robb's crown.

"You sacrificed your life beneath this Heart Tree and finally, _finally_ I could do something other than watch our family fall… I could help our family _rise_. So I pulled, I pulled on all the magic left in our shattered realm, I called on the last of the Children, I tore down the Wall and razed Winterfell to the ground, I drew power from the Night King who marked me and I shattered what was left of our world… for _you_."

"Bran… I-" Jon whispers, the consequences of Bran's actions devastating and he looks to the Reflecting pool and sees Bran's tale enfolding, he sees the Wall fall and Winterfell break, he sees the Night King fall and the realm go dark… and then he remembers waking, beneath the Heart Tree, with his second chance to save them all.

"You, you I planned." Bran grins, and Jon sees a darkness in him then, and remembers Maester Aemon's words the day he _truly_ became Lord Commander. _K_ _ill the boy… and let the man be born._ "Me, I hoped. But Sansa… she was a surprise, and now we have eyes in Kings Landing."

Jon glances to Lady, and scratches behind her ears, wondering if Sansa too saw through her Direwolf's eyes. "She learnt the Game of Thrones at Cersei Lannister's heel, and she is going to play, no matter the cost."

Bran's eyes gleam white. "The cost will always be our Father, for his honor, just as yours did, will lead him to the Crypts aside his Father and siblings... but this was never his War, the War of the Seven Kingdoms, that was always _our_ War, and will be still."

* * *

 **AN:** You know much, Jon Snow, and Bran? Well, you know all as per.


	8. VIII - Enter House Tyrell, Stage Left

**Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter VIII –** _Sansa_

* * *

She wakes to the smell of smoke.

The acrid scent burns her nose, and she panics, it's too early for an attack on Kings Landing and if things are changing this early, all she learnt, all she went through in her last life was for nothing. She blinks, and breathes easily as she realises she's not looking upon red stones, but flames, and as she sees Mikken, Winterfell's Blacksmith, and Ser Rodrik, Winterfell's Master at Arms, she realises she's home.

They race past her without a glance, pales of water in arm, and Sansa moves to offer a hand, but her legs don't work like she remembers, and she falls, crashing hard into the stone, her legs tucked beneath her painfully. She whimpers, and a loud whistle pierces the air, and by instinct she moves, following the sound in a way she wasn't aware she could, sensing things she didn't know existed.

The Godswood is just as she remembers in her last life, though without her Lord Father cleaning his great-sword Ice aside the Reflecting Pool. She sees Bran, her sweet broken brother, whole again, like she remembers him being in their childhood, and she wants to cry for she doesn't think she's seen such a beautiful sight in either of her lives. Jon stands at his side like a guardian, her brother, her saviour, her light in the darkness and Sansa can't breathe, she runs, crying his name in a symphony of noise.

" _Jon!"_ She shouts, but her voice is not her own to control and as Jon kneels to meet her she sees herself reflected in his eyes, and she realises she's not Sansa at all, but _Lady_.

Sansa wakes with a start, breathing heavily, in a room that smells of flowers and not smoke, with her sheets sticky against her skin and her heart thundering wildly against her chest. She leaps from her bed, there's light breaking through her windows, and the stone is cool against her bare feet, but she's herself again, her Tully blue eyes and red hair reflected in the polished looking glass resting atop her vanity.

Sansa breathes easily again, and she wonders, was this something she should have experienced in her last life, had Lady survived? When Jon spoke of magic and the unimaginable feats he saw beyond The Wall, she'd scarcely believed him, but her dream… she was _Lady_ , she was in Winterfell and she saw her _brothers,_ listened to them through Lady's ears and it was so, irrefutably real.

It's odd, to be in the Tower of the Hand once more, unfamiliar, for she spent so little time here in her last life, but she appreciates the view, as she can see all of Kings Landing, from the slums of Flea Bottom, to the red stones of the Keep. The Tiltyard is fully constructed now, and as she watches squires and servants, small as ants, scurry around in preparation for the upcoming Hand's Tourney, she remembers it as the day Peytr Baylish traded thinly concealed barbs with Renly Baratheon regarding his choice of _companion,_ the day she first saw the cruelty of men in the hands of Ser Gregor Clegane, and the day she realised that even the best of men weren't above using cheap tricks to obtain glory.

It's been quiet, since arriving in Kings Landing. Sansa's glad, for she remembers the arguments she had with Arya in her last life, and the way she'd treated their Lord Father, blaming him for Cersei's thirst for blood. She's noticed more this time, she's no longer caught up in her desire to become the perfect Southern wife, and sees her Father's distaste for Kings Landing, his frustration at the mounting debt to the Lannister's… Sansa knows there is nothing she can do to help him on the council, but she knows the Lannister's, she knows _Joffrey_. The Game of Thrones is hers to play, for she will hold the advantage, for as long as no one believes her a player, for as long as they believe her _weak._

Sansa turns her eyes to the gowns hanging in the corner of her chambers, the cool Tully blues, the Stark grey and the snow white of the North. In this life she will not be Cersei's _little dove_ nor will she be cowed and forced to deny her House, for she is a Stark of Winterfell, and in this life, she'll wear her colours with pride.

Her Lord Father is absent as Sansa takes her seat at the heavily laden table, exotic fruits, jams and warm crusty bread laid out in a veritable feast. She'd forgotten the opulence of even a simple breakfast in the South, a far cry from the meager serving of warm oats they were served after she and Jon reclaimed Winterfell. Spying a tray full of Lemon cakes, Sansa places a few on her plate, smiling as Arya slips onto a seat beside her, forgoing the dress Septa Mordane no doubt hung beside her sister's bed.

"Another dancing lesson this morning sweet sister?" Sansa asks with a small smirk, noting the belt Arya wore should hold a scabbard, though she was thankful Arya was without for now.

Arya raises her chin, and Sansa fights the dismay that her sister still holds her in contempt. "What of it."

"Do not forget your amour," Sansa replies, rising from the table as Septa Mordane enters, "it is harder to hide a bruise when you're wearing a Southern gown."

Sansa feels Arya's confusion as she falls into step aside the Septa, the woman's lecture washing over her as they walk. The Iron Throne is empty, Robert Baratheon off whoring and drinking himself into an early grave, and Sansa wonders just how far Cersei went in their last life to help him greet the Old Gods. She has no doubt King Robert will greet them just as soon in this life.

She hates this room. This was where her Lord Father's sentence was decided, where his Lord Father and her Uncle had their lives brutally ripped from their grasps, where she was stripped and beaten, where she learnt of her family's fate.

"One day Sansa, you will stand beside your Lord Husband, as he rules the Seven Kingdoms." Septa Mordane smiled primly.

Sansa didn't spare her a glance. The Iron Throne was forged by Dragon Fire, and in her last life, she heard tales of Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons... now she wonders if those rumors were true, for she would like nothing more than to see the Iron Throne melted to scrap before her eyes.

"Yes." She murmurs, "I cannot wait to stand silent at my Husband's side as he presides over the room where my Lord Grandfather was burnt to ash by Wildfire, and my Uncle strangled by his own belt."

"Sansa!" The Septa cries, scandalized, but Sansa hardly notices, she can feel someone's eyes upon her, and turns, glimpsing a familiar weathered smirk, before they disappear into the bustle of the Red Keep. "It isn't polite to-"

"I've had enough of our lessons today Septa Mordane, thank you." Sansa speaks firmly, cutting the older woman off, her dismissal as clear as the water lapping at the cliffs of the Keep. She can only stand so long being treated as the child she looks like, instead of the hard woman she'd become in her last life… she's no naïve girl, though she has every intention of portraying such as she plays her game.

She knows she's being watched, closely, not by Joffrey, he's not yet smart nor wise enough to have one of his _dogs_ monitor her movement, but she knows one of her Father's men are shadowing her every step, and she's glimpsed the Hound at her heels more than once since their tête-à-tête on the Kingsroad. He's surprisingly stealthy for one so large and identifiable, but Sansa knows he's there, his curiosity she decides is what caused his offer of an escape in her last life, and knows he won't be satisfied with what little he has learnt of her in this life. In her Northern gowns she's not spared a second glance as she mingles with the crowd beginning to gather around the Tiltyard, a market having sprung around the edges of the new construction, vendors already hawking their wares to Noblemen and women, travelers and peasants alike. She wanders between stalls, the coins her Lord Father had palmed her days before sitting heavily in her pockets, and glances over her shoulder at her watcher, one of her Father's sworn Bannermen, a younger cousin of Greatjon Umber she believes. Sansa knows her Father's noticed a change within her, and it's evident in his actions toward her, in the way he's reigned in the overbearing Septa Mordane, and in the freedom he's gifted her.

Sansa's caught unawares as a fight breaks out behind her, the crowd surging and she feels herself get shoved forward her descent to the ground stopped as she crashes into a man, far taller than herself, with golden hair she finds familiar, and cheekbones she's only seen in one family in both her lifetimes. He catches her with an arm around her waist, and she notices he's leaning bodily on an intricately carved staff. She doesn't need to see the beautifully embroidered roses on his jacket to know what family he hails from. From beneath her eyelashes Sansa stares up at him, and she understands what Renly Baratheon sees in Ser Loras, and what Joffrey saw in Margaery.

Sansa feels like a girl again, her breath stolen from her lungs and her heart thundering so wildly in her chest she swears he can feel every beat. He rights her with one arm, and she finds her feet beneath her, though he doesn't release her waist, and she's glad, for she fears she'll fall without him to hold her steady.

"Thank you Ser." Sansa whispers finally, and wonders if he's as swept up in her, as she is in him.

"You're welcome my Lady, though I am no Ser."

His voice is like honey, and she feels _safe_ in a way she hasn't felt since she left Jon's side, and the warm walls of Winterfell.

"No?"

He smiles down at her, and she notices he has the same smile as Margaery, kind, beautiful, and hiding a tongue that could be as barbed as the roses they took as their Banner symbol.

"No." He releases her waist, as is proper, Sansa reminds herself, when she finds she is disappointed by the lack of contact, and dips into a light bow, and Sansa remembers Oberyn Martell singing the praises of the oldest Tyrell, the man he left crippled after a Jousting Tourney in Highgarden. "Willas Tyrell my Lady, heir of Highgarden."

Sansa dips into a curtsy. _Sansa Stark,_ her mind whispers, _Queen in the North._ "Sansa Stark my Lord, of Winterfell."

His smile falters momentarily, and she knows when he's caught sight of her Guard over the top of her head, his eyes narrow, and she's surprised when he offers her his arm. His eyes are upon her again, and she takes the proffered limb. He leads her to the cushioned stands, and Sansa wonders how much he hides behind the staff he leans upon, for he's as agile as she when they ascend halfway, the stairs giving him no problems at all. They sit in silence and Sansa watches as servants dump sand from buckets onto the gargantuan field, others running behind them with a rake, smoothing the ground into a perfect flattop for the upcoming Joust. How much of this would be stained red throughout the Tourney she thinks.

"Lady Sansa Stark." Willas says smoothly. "Betrothed of the future King?"

She raises her chin, and realises with an internal laugh that she's emulating Arya. "The King has always held a longing for Stark girls." Sansa states. There are no ears here, no little birds to report to their Masters, however Willas is a Tyrell, and despite her adoration for Margaery in her last life, she was never sure of the Tyrell's loyalty. She remembers the rumors of Robb's campaign in her last life, in that he wished to align himself with the Tyrell's through Margaery's marriage to Renly Baratheon. The war for the Seven Kingdoms is inevitable, of that she is certain and this time, _the Stark's will rise._ Sansa takes the risk, a biting comment leaving her lips. "It seems his son is no different. Though why he chose one who favours her Mother's Tully blood, rather than her Stark bloodline I am yet to discover."

"Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it." Willas offers her a secretive smirk. "I wonder if Joffrey too, will go to war for a woman who does not love him."

Sansa stares at him, and is reminded just who the Tyrell's aligned with during Robert's Rebellion, and remembers it was her Father, that eventually convinced them to bow when Rhaegar fell. "Joffrey will go to war for far less, Willas Tyrell… of that, I am certain."

* * *

 **AN:** Enter Willas, stage left.


	9. IX - Twice You Would Be Queen

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter IX –** _Bran_

* * *

Bran wakes, and he's flying.

Winterfell's gone, and he's wandering, his black wings keeping him aloft on the air currents, grass melting into water, and water melting into sand, and he's far across the Narrow Sea, above a land he's never seen, nor set foot upon.

Hundreds of men and women walk and ride beneath him, a Dothraki hoard? He's never seen one in his real life, but the part of the Raven that was Brynden remembers stories, of wild men who lived by their own code, who raped and pillaged and plundered cities, stole woman from their beds, and razed buildings to the ground.

They stop, and he's beside them, his feet once more upon the earth, and he feels it then... this is present, not past, less like stone and more like sand, changing whenever a wave hit the shore. Unseen he wanders between them. Men with long plaits stretching down their backs raise tents and women start fires, stoking the coals until they're orange, hot and warm and the same as in his hearth, the fire that couldn't burn Jon. He watches as children run beneath their legs, some bringing pails of water for the horses tethered to fallen logs, others sitting beside their mothers, learning their trade at their side.

Bran's not sure why he's here, across the Narrow Sea. He's drawn here, inexplicably and he's confused, for what could there be to learn so far away from his family? His wings ruffle behind him as he finds himself inside a tent, and he knows then, what's brought him here.

 _Daenerys Targaryen._

She's younger than Bran's ever seen her, his visions in his last life showed her atop a mighty black Dragon, but here, she's a girl, young, beautiful, a mere few years older than Sansa is now. She's beautiful, striking, in the same way Rhaegar was, with her molten silver hair and violet eyes. He sees Jon in her cheekbones, in her nose and lips, _Targaryen_ features, and knows, if it weren't for Jon's Stark colouring, there would be no doubt of the truth of his brother's parentage.

He watches, the Dothraki woman kneeling at Daenerys's side patiently correcting her verbs and twining her silver locks into long plaits. Bran feels the air change, and sees the Dothraki woman cup Daenerys breast, a curious expression on her face, the silver haired woman's protests falling on deaf ears as she asks one simple question.

" _When was last time you bleed Khaleesi?"_

Daenerys' hand finds her stomach, and Bran staggers, his knees going weak beneath him. Pregnant. Had this happened in his last life? He couldn't have known, he wasn't the Three-Eyed Raven at this point in his last life, he was just Bran, the crippled second son of House Stark.

 _"You have changed Khaleesi."_

Bran's wings unfurl, and he's so high in the air he can no longer see the Dothraki Hoard. He feels the same pull that led him beyond The Wall in his last life, pulling him here in this life, and he's angry.

How is he to help his family from across the Narrow Sea?

He pulls at the power deep within his chest, and finds himself again, in unfamiliar territory, red stones encircle him now, and as his feet touch the ground, he finds himself in the same chamber as the Iron Throne, observing it from a balcony above, he leans his forearms against the polished stone and feels her at his side, she's dreaming of her last life, and this time he's here to watch the cruelty she's endured at the Lannister's hand.

Bran watches the bastard Joffrey preside over a court full of simpering Southern Lords and Ladies, grinning maliciously as he levels a golden crossbow at his sweet sister, the summer child who wasn't born for the brutality she would continue to face at the hands of Bastards. She kneels before him, shaking, broken and terrified at the fate their Lord Father had left her to endure with his death, and the betrothal he'd been forced to consent to.

 _"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part, you know that_ please,"

Bran reaches out to her, and Sansa turns, noticing him for the first time. She looks every inch the Queen she became the moment Jon was crowned King in the North, instead of the girl she returned to when they awoke in this life. Resplendent in a Northern style midnight gown he's sure once belonged to their Lady Mother, and a woollen cloak in the same style as their Lord Father. The memory continues to play out on the floor below them, Sansa's cries echoing off the red stones as Joffrey gleefully threatens her life.

"Hello Sansa."

She regards him coldly, and Bran watches her eyes as they take in his dark wings. Confusion crosses her face as she recognizes the significance of his Stark colouring, and he knows, that for an instant, she's reminded of Jon. To her, he's impossible, for Jon's the only Stark she truly believed alive in their last life.

"Am I dreaming?"

"We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark." Bran retracts his hand when she doesn't take it. She doesn't trust him, even though he spoke the words that have defined their second chance at life. He doesn't blame her, she doesn't truly trust anyone but Jon, and yet, his heart clenches. _Oh how we failed her_ , he thinks. He again leans over the balustrade, watching as a golden haired boy, clearly a _Lannister,_ struts across the room his hand on a sword Bran's sure he's never swung, spewing a poisonous tirade of the war pushing at their doorstep. His twisted account of Robb's men, the sworn Bannermen of the House Stark, the army that reduced Jamie Lannister's men to squealing children, eating the flesh of the red-cloaked soldiers they'd slain reducing Noble men to nothing but _savages_. "Maybe at the beginning," Bran states, answering her question. "But not anymore."

Sansa looks at him, and sees the man, not the child. "We believed you dead in our last life. We thought you lost beyond The Wall."

"I was never lost." Bran answers. "In our last life, I became the Three-Eyed Raven." He unfurls his wings, and Sansa steps forward, her fingertips hovering over the feathers. "You can touch them Sansa, they're as real as you or I in this place."

Sansa smiles, "I never believed Old Nan's stories, not like you or Robb or Arya. Even when Jon told me of life beyond The Wall, I could not fathom it. Then I awoke, in Winterfell, as the girl I was, not the woman I'd become, and I believed."

It strikes Bran that this is the longest conversation he's ever had with his eldest sister, in either lifetime. He's watched her, watched her run and fall and rise and conquer, but he's never really _known_ Sansa. There's a commotion below them, and Bran watches the shaking child on the stone floor have her knee kicked from beneath her and her dress savagely ripped down her spine. The would-be Queen of Westeros, shamed and brutalised.

It strikes him then that she chose to return to Kings Landing, to a place that didn't protect her, with the people that broke her. "Why did you come back here?" Bran asks, when he's unable to find the answer. "Why would you return to this life?"

 _"We never should have left Winterfell."_

Sansa turns away from the scene playing below. Bran knows what she's remembering, the whispered conversation shared with Jon over watery broth in front of a warm fire at The Wall.

" _Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left? I want to scream at myself don't go you idiot."_

"Winterfell is my home, but in Winterfell, I cannot play. Right now, the Lannister's hold the Westerlands and Crownlands, they control the gold mines and Kings Landing is Baratheon only in name. In our last life Renly Baratheon's death resulted in the Lannister's gaining the Reach, and with Robb's murder, the Riverlands and the North. There is a war coming Bran, whether or not it starts with our Lord Father's head on the block."

"Twice you would be a Queen." Bran murmurs.

Tyrion Lannister takes the floor, his kindness to Sansa's child self, uncharacteristic for a Lannister. But Bran remembers the small man from his visions in his last life, standing aside the Mother of Dragons, proud and unyielding in his loyalty.

"We know no _King."_ Sansa begins. "I do not wish to be a Queen, not in our last life when I grew from a child and understood the monster I was to marry, nor in this life when I am returned to him. I want Robb to rise as a King, I want him to rule the North well, I want our family safe and the Lannister's to fall." She glares at the ugly Iron Throne from the base of the stairs before it, as the chamber empties around them. "I want this melted to scrap, the Red Keep returned to rubble, and for the Starks to never again return to Kings Landing. We were not meant for the Iron Throne."

"We were not." Bran agrees, a dark smirk pulling at his lips. "The Iron Throne was forged by a Targaryen for Targaryen's... but Sansa, what of a Targaryen raised as a Stark?

He watches her pallor whiten, he sees as the many puzzle pieces fall into place in her mind, their Lord Father's insistence Jon be raised among them, as one of them, despite their Lady Mother's hatred, the whispered tale they'd heard one night, of Lady Lyanna and her Silver Prince... of the _love_ that started a war. "Bran, you can't possibly mean Jon is..."

Bran nods, "Our brother is the last surviving trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen." He looks towards the Iron Throne. "Jon, is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms."

Sansa fades and Bran wakes, in Winterfell, wingless and young again.

The Great Keep is quiet.

Outside, men under Ser Rodrik's careful eye have started to rebuild the burnt out Sept, to Septon Chayle's particular specifications. If the Sept is slightly bigger than before, the men don't comment, such is their love for their Lady, though Southern as she be. Winter Town is bustling, markets and shelters springing up where there were none before, the people under the Stark rule feeling the change in the air... _Winter_ , _is_ _Coming_.

Robb's hand is bandaged still, Bran notices as he sneaks into the back of the Great Hall where Robb is holding court, the way their Lord Father used to before he left for Kings Landing. He's so young, Bran notes, though, even when he counts the years of his last life, Bran is still only six and ten, a year younger than Robb in this life. But his eldest brother is naïve, he hasn't seen the horrors of the world, he knows nothing of War, of bloodshed and loss, sheltered as he's been in Winterfell. He'll swing the sword just as their Lord Father did, he will uphold his duties of Warden of the North... but Robb's just a boy.

Robb catches his eye as the last man leaves, and Bran steps forward from the shadows, bowing theatrically before the High Table. "Oh benevolent Lord Stark of Winterfell, could you avail me for a moment of your time?" He grins.

"Brat." Robb laughs, and tries to catch him in a headlock, surprise colours his face as Bran swiftly dodges his outstretched arm. "You've gotten quick."

Bran smiles, and shifts from foot to foot. "I have. You're doing well, I've heard many in the Great Keep say so." Robb ducks his head, and Bran knows he's hiding a pleased blush. "Father would be proud."

Robb's blush turns to a frown. His eyes search the Great Hall, and finds they're alone. "Father has much to answer for."

"Father did what he thought was right... and what he promised." Bran replies, watching Robb's eyes flash. He's got their Mother's temper, and none of their Father's patience.

"Father is gone, but his secrets remain Bran. Jon has lain at the feet of Aunt Lyanna's tomb for days, pleading for answers from a dead woman's lips, and Mother has sequestered herself in Father's Solar, she'll not face anyone, how she's treated our _brother_ eating away at her soul." Robb snarls, he's angry Bran notes, and sad, incredibly sad. It's then Bran realises the truth of Jon's parentage is eating away at Robb too. "When we were children, Jon and I would play a game, we'd take the names of mighty warriors, of famed Knights, and Lords and one morning, Jon claimed to be the Lord of Winterfell. He'd done so hundreds of times before, until one morning, I repeated the words our Mother told me."

Bran knows the words, knows the poison the Lady Mother whispered in Robb's ear, her anger at Jon, even as a child known to the entirety of Winterfell.

"That was the first and last time I acknowledged Jon as a bastard, and the last time we ever played as warriors, as Knights, as Lords." Robb explains. "Jon has faced many wrongs, and we are all guilty of inflicting them."

"Jon is a good man Robb, a great man." Bran starts. "Jon is all the best of our Lord Father, and while he may not carry our Father's name, _our_ name, he is our brother, and he casts us no blame."

Robb claps him on the shoulder, and Bran gives him a solemn smile. He sees him then, the man Robb became upon their Lord Father's death, the man he was always destined to become. A King. "You've grown into a man whilst I blinked little brother, those weeks you slept have made you wise."

Robb leaves, and Bran watches him go, the Great Hall cold and unwelcoming without his eldest brother. Unknowingly he walks the same path as Jon, his hand tracing the tops of the intricately carved chairs at the head of the hall, and wonders how long until he's called across the Narrow Sea, to the side of Daenerys Targaryen. He stands behind his Lord Father's chair, the chair that became Robb's on his death, and Jon's when he and Sansa were all that was left. Bran's never shied from his destiny, nor the path he's been led as the Three-Eyed Raven... but he knows, that even in this life, some things, are set in stone.

 _"Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding, he is the White Wolf... The King in the North!"_

He hears Lord Manderly's voice echo in his ears, sees the Lord of White Harbor kneel behind his sword... Bran shuts his eyes, willing the voice to die, but another takes his place, Greatjon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth, strong, proud, and Northern to the _core_.

 _"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the Dragons we bowed to, and now, the Dragons are dead! There, sits the only man I mean to bend my knee to... The King in the North!"_

Bran grins... and his eyes turn white.

* * *

 **AN:** Bran's being pulled in many different directions, lets see which one he takes.


	10. X - A Mother's Love

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark.

* * *

 **Chapter X –** _Jon_

* * *

The Crypts are cold.

Firelight flickers in the torches upon the walls, but the little warmth they provide is swallowed by the endless ancient tombs. He doesn't feel the chill. Jon knows real cold, his years guarding the Wall and walking beyond it teaching him such. He's almost warm here, curled up against Ghost's massive side, with Lady resting her head in his lap, the great Direwolves offering him comfort he wasn't aware he needed. He scratches Lady behind her ear, she's bigger now than she ever was in their last life, and Jon's thankful for every little victory.

He's lit the candles behind her statue, the effigy of Lyanna illuminated now, the lines of her face painting a striking picture, he knows now he has her eyes and her colouring, not Eddard's, but he also sees himself in her chin, in the shape of her face, and wonders what she would have been like as a mother. He finds himself unable to imagine, for he's never known such, but he's glad his Lord Father- _Lord Stark_ , he corrects, immortalised her in stone, for this is the only likeness of her he's ever seen.

By rights, Lyanna should have been buried alongside eight thousand years of Starks within in the walls, tradition dictating only the Kings in the North, and the Lords of House Stark were to be carved in granite and given a statue upon their death. But Lyanna stands aside her Lord Father, and her eldest brother Brandon, as beautiful in death as she was in life. Ghost whines softly as Jon stands, but quiets as Lady takes the vacated space, and Jon smiles as he notices what adorns Lyanna's crown... an intricately carved circlet of roses. He reaches out to trace them, and wonders if the Usurper truly paid much attention to her statue when he requested Lord Stark bring him here, for surely he knew the significance, and watched as Rhaegar crowned Lyanna as his Queen of Love and Beauty.

"Eddard insisted she be carved with the roses upon her head." Jon drops his hand, his stomach turning uneasily as he turns to meet the voice. Lady Stark stands proudly in the dim light, holding a heavy black cloak Jon doesn't recognise, unafraid as Lady noses at her side, searching for affection. The still bitter child within him wants to berate the soft hearted wolf for trying. "I did not understand why, until I saw your hand, unburnt in the flames."

"Fire cannot harm a Dragon." Jon parrots her words, and is rewarded with a grim smile.

"No, it cannot." She seems to fight with herself before speaking, and Jon wonders how hard this is for her. He can count on one hand the conversations they've had within either of his lives, with four fingers to spare, and resolves to simply wait. Eventually Catelyn continues, her eyes not on him, but on the imposing stone statue beside Lyanna. "I was two and ten when my Lord Father promised me to Brandon Stark. He was dashing and proud, and I believed myself in love with him as a girl, though I did not truly know him. I despaired his wandering eye, but I prayed he would settle when we wed. When he was put to death by the Mad King I mourned as I should, but I was glad to be offered to Eddard, he was noble even then, an honourable man, my Lord Father told me, and I knew that unlike Brandon, I would not compete for his affection."

"I gave him an heir on our wedding night, and though he was off fighting Robert Baratheon's war, I grew to love him with every word he wrote me, and his child grew inside me. When Eddard returned from the war, with a babe in his arms that could only be his, I could not bare to look at you, the living stain upon my Lord Husband's honour, and the proof that he was no better than his brother before him. Innocent though you may have been, I let my anger fester into hate, and as you grew, you looked more and more Stark, whilst mine own trueborn son, took my _Tully_ colouring..." She pauses and Jon doesn't know whether to speak. "I felt like a failure, with every day Robb grew to look more like me, and such was my cruelty that I prayed to the Gods, 'take Jon away... make him die.'"

Jon swallows and Ghost whines piteously. He rests his hand on his Direwolf's head, distracted as Lady leaves Catelyn in favour for his side. Gods he misses Sansa, he thinks, he needs her here, not in Kings Landing, but with him in Winterfell. He's so lost here, in Catelyn's words and Bran's revelations and he needs her council, now more than ever before.

"You caught the pox not long after. Maester Luwin told us that if you made it through the night, you'd live, but it would be a long night... and it was. I sat with you, all through the darkness, I sat with you, through every hacking cough and whimper, and you were so small, so young, and all I could think was that I was the worst woman in the world, for who asks the Gods for a child to die?" Jon couldn't answer. "I promised myself, should that child survive the night I would love him as a mother would, I would petition my Lord Husband to give him a name, a _true_ name and be done with it, the boy would be mine, and that would be the end of it." Catelyn couldn't meet his eyes, and Jon found he didn't want her to. "And when the sun rose and you lived... I couldn't keep my promise."

"I did not ask to be born." Jon whispers. "I did not ask for Lord Stark to claim me as his bastard nor to be raised at Winterfell alongside his _Trueborn_ sons and daughters, I was a _child._ I had no choice. _"_

"I raised my children to respect the words of House Tully, 'Family, Duty, Honour' I taught them… but I could not hold myself to those words, when it came to you. 'The boy is of my blood' Eddard would yell, whenever I _begged_ him to cast you out, and I was angry, so hurt that he had loved this other woman, when I had given him my heart." Her knuckles are white, Jon notices, a stark contrast to the black cloak she's gripping like a lifeline. "I have many regrets Jon, you did not deserve my ire, you deserved nothing less than a name to be proud of, and I am glad, that despite my best efforts, my children take after their Lord Father, and not their bitter Mother."

"Lady Stark…" He made peace with her treatment many years ago, he's never blamed her, even now, knowing the truth of the circumstances of his birth, he can't blame her. He was raised in _Winterfell_ , as a _trueborn_ scion of House Stark, and though he never forgot his _place_ he learnt more than any Bastard outside of Dorne. "I have never blamed you."

"No," She whispers, "though you have every reason and every right." Catelyn reaches out for him and Jon can't breathe as she squeezes his hand, and passes the cloak to him. It's light, almost too light for the North, and soft, incredibly so, and reminds him immediately of the cloak Sansa made him, after he abandoned the garb of the Night's Watch. "Eddard hides many things in his Solar, I believed I knew all that he kept secreted away in different nooks and crannies, safe from prying eyes… it seems like many things, I was wrong." It's decadent, Jon thinks, beautiful, lined with black fur and detailed with black embroidery, beginning at the hem and changing colour in as it circles inwards, forming a blood red dragon.

Jon's eyes widen. He knows what it is, though it's the first time he's ever seen it outside of a book. Inexplicably his throat tightens, and he can barely breathe. "The three headed dragon." His voice is rough, no louder than a whisper, and he realises, he's one of three people left in the _realm_ who can display this banner, who can wear this seal. "House Targaryen."

"And," Catelyn begins, "House Stark." Jon's heart aches as he sees what she's revealed: the Stark sigil, the grey Direwolf's head, expertly embroidered, hidden from view, yet still proudly displayed, surrounded by a wreath of blue winter roses. It's not traditional he knows, to include the sigil of the woman to be married, but it's a beautiful acknowledgement, and Jon smiles softly.

"Could he have loved her?" The words tumble from his lips before he can stop them, and he blushes, truly feeling like a child.

Lady Catelyn looks to Lyanna. "I met my Lord Husband's sister only once, at the Tourney of Harrenhal." Jon knows the significance, the beginning of the events which would cause a war. "We were similar in age, she was much like Sansa at times, refined and respectful, the perfect Lady in her Lord Father's eyes, but she had a wild streak that would have put my Arya to shame. I sat with her at the Tourney, and though I was only just promised to Brandon, she treated me as though I already held the Stark name. I will never forget the moment the smiles died, as Prince Rhaegar rode past his wife and stopped in front of Lyanna..." Jon bows his head, why did Rhaegar do it, he wonders, why did he so publicly slight his Lady Wife? Did he know his actions would start a war? He's lived with questions of his mother in his last life, resigning himself to never receiving an answer, and now he has, now he knows who _he_ is, who his mother is, he's plagued with more questions than ever before. "The way he looked to her Jon, is the way Eddard looks to me."

" _Did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives, father no children?"_

" _No."_

" _So they will not love. Love, is the death of duty."_

"They started a war." Jon chokes, remembering Maester Aemon's words, so long ago in his last life, once word of his Lord Father's death reached him at the Wall. "Did they even think? Did they even _consider_ the consequences? Love is the death of duty, of honour-"

"What is honour, compared to a woman's love?" Lady Catelyn asks, and Jon strangles a laugh, it seems he's destined for these words in both his lives. "What is duty, against the feel of a newborn son in your arms? Rhaegar and Lyanna were human, they were _flawed_ , but it was not House Targaryen who raised the first banners of war, not House Martell, who had every right to after Princess Elia's treatment, not House Stark who lost their Lord and Heir to the Mad King's wildfire, but House Baratheon, because Lyanna loved her Silver Prince, and not their whoring Lord to whom she was betrothed. House Targaryen did not fall because their Prince loved a Stark, House Targaryen fell because a Baratheon did."

"Lady Stark!" Jon's not sure who the voice belongs to, but it echoes off the stone walls of the crypts and Lady Catelyn turns to him, her pallor whitening as her jaw sets.

"Hide the cloak." She hisses.

Jon nods, and tucks the black cloak around his shoulders, beneath the cloak Sansa sewed for him before she left for Kings Landing, in the same style as the one she made for him in their last life, as Maester Luwin's runner rounds the corner. The boy trips over himself to bow to Lady Stark, his hands shaking as his torch casts enormous shadows of the two Direwolves, their eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"Lady Stark," The boy repeats, "Lord Robb requests your presence, the Imp has returned to Winterfell!" The boy swallows, he's nervous Jon notes, and realises why in an instant. Jon, together with Lady Catelyn, is a rare sight. "P-pardon me, Mi'lady, but L-Lord Robb requests Jon uh, _Snow,_ come as well," The boy hastily bows again, "M-Mi'Lady."

Lady Stark nods. She sweeps past the still shaking boy, her rage is palpable, and Jon thinks he's never seen her so angry in either of his lives, even as he falls into step behind her, Ghost and Lady loping at his heels. It's odd, to be flanked by two Direwolves instead of one, but he thinks he's becoming used to it, as is Robb, who's found himself as the primary carer for both Grey Wind, and Nymeria. Jon hears Tyrion long before they reach the Great Hall, he remembers the half-man vividly, he was boisterous and loud, and from what Sansa told him of her time with Tyrion in her last life… a good man.

The doors to the Great Hall swing open with such force a hush falls over the gathered court. Jon imagines they create quite the formidable picture, Catelyn, with her fierce glare and him, with two half-grown Direwolves at his heels. Robb raises an eyebrow from his seat in the Lords Chair, unsheathed sword across his knees, and Jon offers him a smirk as Ghost and Lady bound towards their littermates upon the raised dais, Nymeria and Grey Wind rising to meet them. Jon watches the large wolves roughhouse as he follows Catelyn forward.

"Do control your mutts Snow."

"Watch your mouth Greyjoy." Catelyn snaps before Jon can do much more than scowl at Lord Stark's ward. "Those _mutts_ are the Sigil of House Stark, and you would do well to remember your place boy."

Robb offers his own scowl, and Jon knows the Turncloak has just lost some of his eldest brother's loyalty thanks to the slight against their beloved Direwolves.

Lady Catelyn continues, directing her attention to the thoroughly amused half-man, beside a man of the Night's Watch, Jon recognises as Yoren, who, along with Benjen, had escorted him to the Wall in his last life. "Ser Rodrik, Tomard, Quent." Jon sees the two Household Guards start at the address, and stand straighter than before. "Seize Tyrion Lannister."

The room roars, Tyrion's amusement vanishes, and Yoren steps back from the half-man, hands raised in deference to House Stark. Robb stands, and slams his sword upon the Lord's table. "Silence!" He roars, and the room quiets. Jon grins, in his last life, he did not see Robb become a King and here, in this one, he's going to enjoy every moment of Robb's rise. "Lady Stark is speaking."

"For crimes committed against House Stark, I, Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, hold you, Tyrion Lannister, in your siblings stead, until such time as they can receive the King's Justice."

"What crimes?" Tyrion demands from his place between Tomard and Quent, the two Guards twisting his arms behind his back.

"Attempted Murder," Catelyn answers coldly, "Of an Heir of House Stark in direct violation of the Guest Right."

"And your proof?"

Catelyn unsheathes a gleaming knife Jon recognises as the blade that the Assassin drew on Bran before Summer took the man's throat as payment for attacking her Master. Throwing it with deadly accuracy, she embeds the blade between Tyrion's feet, the Valerian Steel singing as it impacts the stone.

"This belongs to your family does it not?" Catelyn asks, her voice colder than the winds at the Wall.

Tyrion grimaces, and raises his head. "It's mine." He growls.

Jon steps forward, scrutinising the Imp. _A good man_ , he remembers Sansa telling him. "It seems your Sister's deception does not stop at ordering the _Kingslayer_ to throw a boy of ten from a window. Does she truly hate you so that she'd use _your_ blade to assassinate that same boy when her first attempt failed?"

" _Yes."_ Tyrion replies angrily.

Catelyn regards him, in much the same way Jon remembers her looking at him as a child. "Put him in the Guest Keep, in the room closest to the Guard's Hall, I want him under guard day and night." Ser Rodrik nods, and Jon notices some of Lady Catelyn's tension leave her as Tyrion is dragged, silent, towards the door. "Ser Rodrik." She calls. "Give him bread and water, let it not be said that Northerners do not abide the Guest Right."

Ser Rodrik bows his head. "At once My Lady."

* * *

 **AN:** I originally planned for Robb and Jon to speak, but Catelyn demanded to speak first, and here we are.


	11. XI - Who Will You Bow To?

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter IX –** _Sansa_

* * *

The Hand's Tourney is just as Sansa remembers. She's again seated beside her Lord Father, in the stands erected to the left of the King. She remembers watching the varied Knights in her last life, as they rode forward, stopping before the King to remove their helms and bow. In this life, her eyes subtly wander over the crowd. She's acutely aware of who's seated behind her, his voice is overtly loud to her ears and his wit just as biting as she remembers as he mingles with other Nobles in the stands, she restrains a scowl, his proximity making her skin _crawl_.

Sansa catches the eye of Willas Tyrell as he ascends the stairs beside her with far greater difficulty than he had just days past, when they spoke. She offers him a secretive smile, small, almost unnoticeable, and wonders again, just how much he exaggerates his injury. With so many eyes in Kings Landing she understands why he would, a crippled heir is no threat… an able-bodied heir to a family who refused to bow at the end of the Rebellion, well that was another matter entirely. Willas returns her smile with the same subtlety as he passes, climbing the few steps more to lower himself into a seat aside his youngest brother's lover.

"Where is Arya?" Sansa allows herself to be distracted by her Lord Father's question, she's amused as she watches him shift uncomfortably in his seat, searching for Arya in the gathered crowd. He reminds her of Rickon then, the babe she remembered could never sit still.

Sansa sets a hand on his arm, and he looks to her, understanding crossing his eyes as she offers him a tiny smirk. "Peace Father, she's at her _dancing_ lesson, I do say she's rather enjoying them."

Edward smiles, and gently clasps her hand. His smile is open, honest in its offering to her, and she has no worry that his smile is hiding a promise of a knife in her back. Jon's smile is much the same she recalls, so warm after so long outside in the cold.

Her eyes resume their wander, and catch upon the gleaming armour of Ser Loras Tyrell. He was kind in their last life, and she would have abided Margaery's plot to have her married to the Knight of the Flowers, had Tywin Lannister not interfered. She would have been safe in Highgarden, though unhappy she knows now, for Loras could not have loved her in the way she wanted. He looks much like his eldest brother she notes, and finds herself juxtaposing the two, Ser Loras is pretty, Sansa decides, as he stops before her with a blooming red rose. Willas however, is _beautiful._

"Thank you Ser Loras." She accepts demurely, hiding her amusement as his eyes alight on a spot above her head, before dropping back to her. _It must be nice, to love someone so._ Her eyes follow him as he rides forward and gives the King an elaborate bow, and watches his smirk widen as The Mountain's horse throws his head, restless, hot for the white mare Ser Loras rides. Sansa eyes him critically. She remembers denying Ser Loras would do such a thing in her last life, still so enamoured with the belief that all Knights were honourable creatures, watching him now though she understands and doubts even her honourable Jon would face The Mountain without an advantage.

 _"Our brother is the last surviving trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen... Jon, is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms."_

Sansa's gaze is drawn to The Mountain, and she finds herself unable to look away, her brother's words haunting her as she watches the black stallion stomp, kicking up sand in every direction. She remembers Oberyn Martell, and his conversations with Tyrion when they believed her out of earshot, she remembers his devastation, when speaking of his sister Eliaand her children... _murdered,_ on Tywin Lannister's orders. Bile rises in her throat as she recalls Joffrey's gleeful description of Aegon and Rhaenys' deaths' at the hands of Tywin's men, her heart hurting as she realises that Bran's revelation... meant Rhaenys and Aegon were as much Jon's siblings as she.

"A hundred Gold Dragons on The Mountain!"

Sansa stiffens, Littlefinger's voice sets her blood aflame, and she resists the urge to pull her skirt aside and reach for the dagger Jon presented her before she left Winterfell, and embed it in the traitorous man's throat.

"I'll take that bet!"

"Now what will I buy with a hundred Gold Dragons? A dozen barrels of Dornish Wine? Or a _girl_ from the Pleasure Houses of Lys?"

"You could even buy a friend."

The joust begins and ends in much the same way as Sansa remembers, with The Mountain's steed landing on the railing, and Ser Loras victorious. Men with gold on the outcome rise in outrage and exultation and Sansa hears Renly Baratheon laugh at the Mountain's failure.

"Such a shame Littlefinger, it would have been so nice for you to have a friend."

"And tell me _Lord_ Renly, when will you be having your _friend_?" Sansa hears Petyr sit, and refrains from the urge to remove each of his fingers in the slowest manner possible as he rests his hand on her shoulder and leans toward her. She feels his breath on her neck and she's reminded of the forceful kiss he pressed against her lips before he sold her to Ramsey Bolton. "Loras knew his mare was in heat, quite crafty really."

"I would like to see you ride against The Mountain without any of your _tricks._ " Sansa answers, relieved when he releases her shoulder. She can feel his eyes still upon her, and knows he's got that same calculating gleam in his eye as when he told her he dreamed of ruling the Seven Kingdoms... with her at his side.

The crowd roars, and Sansa looks, flinching with exaggerated disgust as The Mountain removes his stallion's head with his greatsword, before advancing on Loras. She sees Renly stand out the corner of her eye, Willas clearly wanting to follow him, but restraining himself, his knuckles white as he grips his cane. Sansa's distracted as The Hound catches a blow meant for Loras with his broadsword, the steel of both swords singing as they clash. The King rises and The Hound narrowly avoids his brother's swing, Sansa watching with veiled amusement as Ser Loras thanks him by raising the younger Clegane's hand in triumph, declaring the stoic guard Champion.

The Tourney ends, and Septa Mordane hovers by her side as the stands empty, Sansa finding herself annoyed by the elderly woman's insistence they return to the Tower of the Hand. She makes a point to brush past Willas Tyrell as he descends the stands slowly and obediently follows Septa Mordane from the Tiltyard. Sansa understands now Arya's proclivity for escaping the spiteful woman's lessons, for Arya had never received anything but scorn from the woman who heaped so much praise upon Sansa for her poise and stitching. It bothers her now, that despite her Lord Father's insistence she be allowed some freedom, the Septa is still rather overbearing, and she finds it difficult to remain under the woman's ever watchful eye. With all that occurred in her last life, Sansa has no desire to be transformed into Cersei's perfect little bird, or Joffrey's meek little wife in this life. She wants to be the warrior Jon sees her as, the woman who led men like Ramsey Bolton to their deaths with a _smile,_ and the most powerful player in the game of thrones _._

She slips from the Tower of the Hand with little difficulty, the few Stark Household Guards too easy to get by and the Gold Cloaks of the City Watch and the Red Cloaks of the Lannister Guard nowhere to be seen as she traverses the Red Keep to the Godswood. The Godswood here is different to the acres of Sentinels, Ironwoods, Oaks and Ash at Winterfell, this wood is smaller, lighter, filled with Elm, Alder and Black Cottonwood, even the Heart Tree is wrong, there's no bark whiter than bone or leaves of striking vermillion that decorate an ancient Weirwood, instead there's a great Oak, covered in Smokeberry vines and Dragon Breath growing wildly below. Sansa kneels, offering a prayer to the Old Gods, there's something wild about the Godswood, even more so now, she feels a thousand unseen eyes watching her and though she suspects Bran's hand in pulling them back after her dream, she knows it was the Old Gods who allowed the feat.

Sansa makes no move as she hears the rustle of clothing behind her, Jon's dagger is within easy reach should her estimation of his character be entirely wrong, and she rises, turning to face the visitor. There are no eyes here, none of Varys' little birds, or eyes of anyone aside the Old Gods, and he's just as she expected, standing tall, with little weight resting upon his cane, and a curious expression on his face as he looks at her.

She smirks. "I see you got my note My Lord."

He holds the small scroll between two fingers. "I admit I was curious when you slipped it into my hand at the Tourney, more so when I read the contents."

"Tell me Lord Willas, as Heir to Highgarden do you speak for House Tyrell, or just yourself?" Sansa asks.

Willas raises an eyebrow. "I am the next Lord of Highgarden and I will be the Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South upon my Father's passing, when I speak I do so for the _entirety_ of House Tyrell. Who do you speak for Sansa of House Stark?"

"I speak for House Stark, though I will never hold the title of Lady Stark, my word is as good as that of my eldest brother."

"Not your Lord Father?" Willas asks.

Sansa clenches her jaw. She can't speak for her Lord Father, Bran's revelation meant she wouldn't even try, his secrets and his honour may have saved Jon as a babe, but they led him to his death here, in Kings Landing, and she isn't sure she can prevent it in this life... no matter how greatly she wishes to do so. She can't truly even speak for Robb, though she's indicated different to Willas.

"No." She answers shortly and she doesn't elaborate. "Your titles, they were gifted to House Tyrell by Aegon Targaryen during the Targaryen Conquest were they not?"

"As were the titles of House Stark." Willas replies evenly.

Sansa's smile is cunning. "We ruled as Kings long before the Targaryen Conquest, and bent the knee to save our people. We did not rise as from Steward to Lord, as Harlen Tyrell did."

If Willas is shocked by her statement he doesn't show it. Sansa finds herself respecting his stoic façade, and realises just whom he reminds her of. The Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna Tyrell. She imagines Margaery was not the only Tyrell sibling to learn at the matron's heel.

"House Tyrell is underestimated by the King." Sansa says bluntly, amused to see the slightest of cracks in Willas's armour. "The realm thinks House Tyrell benevolent, and they believe that like House Stark, we are utterly beholden to _honourable_ conduct... they are _fools._ They forget that a rose's beauty often hides thorns, and that Direwolves exist this side of the Wall. House Tyrell is just as cunning if not more so than House Lannister, and I will not allow my family to lose the game of thrones because we would not _play._ " She can feel his eyes follow her as she reaches for the rose she'd tucked into the twisting Smokeberry vines on the great Oak. "House Tyrell remained loyal to House Targaryen through the Battle of the Trident and the Sack of Kings Landing, until Lord Tyrell dipped the banners when my Lord Father came to lift the Siege of Storm's End."

"So tell me, Lord Willas Tyrell, Heir to the Lordship of Highgarden, Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South, where do the loyalties of House Tyrell lie now? Does House Tyrell belong to King Robert beholden as he be to House Lannister?" She watches him closely now, gratified as his eyes widen when she continues. "Or do they lie further across the Narrow Sea, with the Beggar King and his sister?"

"You know much for a girl of thirteen." Willas replies, and Sansa recognises the gleam in his eyes, it was much the same as Margaery's as she plotted to marry her to Loras. "Despite your Lord Father's apparent loyalty to the crown you seem to hold nothing but contempt for the King upon the Iron Throne. Tell me why, and I will answer."

Sansa raises an eyebrow, but does as he wishes. "You are a fool if you believe House Baratheon rules the Seven Kingdoms in anything but name. It is House Lannister that presides over Westeros, and they have done so since Tywin Lannister sold his daughter to Jon Arryn for Robert Baratheon. You studied the ruling houses as a child, just as I did, so tell me, has there ever been a Baratheon boy born who was not black of hair?"

She can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, understands the conflict welling in his chest. Sansa's running on adrenaline, this calculated risk she's taken to reveal to be working against the crown in the most dangerous place she could... in the heart of the Red Keep. She's essentially handed her life to him, based on information she'd gathered of his personality in her last life, and what she's learnt so far in this one. If this conversation does not go as she hopes, she's wasted her second chance, and she doesn't believe she'll get a third.

Willas takes a breath and Sansa waits. "I was seven when Robert's Rebellion began, just a child, but I remember Rhaegar vividly. He was kind and noble and I decided that when I was Lord of Highgarden I would follow him, as faithfully as Harlen followed Aegon. But Rhaegar fell, and House Tyrell swore fealty to the new King on the Iron Throne. Forever, Growing Strong." He says and Sansa wonders if she's made a mistake. Jon's dagger is still strapped to her thigh within easy reach and she hopes she won't have to use it here. "King Robert is not the same man now as he was when he won his Rebellion, but he will surrender the Iron Throne no easier than the Mad King."

"The Mad King died laughing, with Jamie Lannister's sword through his chest." Sansa replies sharply. "My brother was thrown from the top of a tower at Winterfell because he saw the Queen _fucking_ her twin, and you expect me to believe that Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, a cruel _boy_ with none of the defining Baratheon features is Robert Baratheon's trueborn son?"

Willas's stoic façade slips, and Sansa knows he believes her harsh words. "By the Gods. Who would you have House Tyrell support Lady Sansa?" He asks darkly. "House Stark?"

Sansa rolls her eyes, again channelling Arya. She offers him the rose she holds, and knows he recognises it as the one Loras gifted her with at the beginning of his ride at the Tourney. "You learnt at the knee of your Grandmother, Lady Olenna did you not? You know as well as I that the current Lord of Highgarden has a soft spot for his youngest son, the Knight of the Flowers. I do suspect House Tyrell will be supporting Renly Baratheon's claim upon the Iron Throne should Joffrey's true parentage be revealed." Willas takes the rose and she gives him a cunning smile. "Do give that to Lord Renly would you, I would hate for him to think he has a competitor for Ser Loras's affections."

"And whom would House Stark be raising their banners for?" Willas asks.

"My Lord Father is honourable, he believes in the lines of succession. I know he would have us declare for Stannis Baratheon, should the worst happen to King Robert."

Willas laughs. "Stannis Baratheon has no business in becoming the King on the Iron Throne. The Bannermen of House Baratheon will not follow him, they have not yet forgotten the Siege of Storm's End, and how many of their children he led to their deaths."

"My eldest brother would no more declare for Stannis than the Baratheon Bannermen would. Robb will declare for the North, and the Bannermen of House Stark will declare for him. Maybe it's time House Stark ruled ourselves again, after all, it was House Targaryen we bowed our Kingship to, not House Baratheon and certainly not House Lannister."

"And would you bow to House Targaryen again?" Willas asks, his smile just as cunning as Margaery's.

Sansa smirks, and watches a light dawn in Willas's eyes as he realises that for all she's revealed she still knows more than she's telling. She pauses beside him as she makes to return to the Tower of the Hand. "Perhaps." She concedes, and drops into a light curtsey. "Good night Lord Willas."

His whispered "Good night Lady Sansa," follows her as she leaves the Godswood, again finding it too easy to traverse the supposedly well guarded halls of the Red Keep. She's settling into her bed, a relieved smile crossing her lips when her door is flung open and a lantern swung into her view.

"Sansa wake up!" Arya shouts, and Sansa rises from her bed easily.

"Arya?" She asks confused, her eyes widening as she spies the crystalline tear tracks on Arya's rosy cheeks. "What is it?"

"Please, come quick, it's Father… he's been attacked."

Sansa's blood runs cold.

* * *

 **AN:** Willas returns and Ser Jamie attacks the Hand. Sansa's first foray into the Game of Thrones has begun, and I do believe she's gained her first ally.

Chapter 12 has been rather difficult to write as such I have decided to post this in the hopes it will revive my muse. Thank you to all 112 reviewers, all 300 favourites and all 404 follows, I can't thank you all enough for the response you've had to this story, every notification I get for this story spurs me onwards and keeps me writing. There aren't enough words for me to describe how grateful I am.


	12. XII - Spearwife

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XII –** _Bran_

* * *

From the top of the Great Keep, Bran watches a Raven wing it's way toward Winterfell. Wind whips at his face, and he grins, there is nothing quite like the freedom of climbing. He spent so long being dragged and pushed and carried in his last life and in this moment he's never been more thankful for Jon saving his legs in this one. He swings from the roof, easily finding footholds in the stone as he descends, running across the rooftop and dropping into the tiltyard, Summer rising to meet him. The raven is closer now, and Bran raises his arm, smiling as the bird lands on his forearm. He takes the scroll from its leg, recognising Sansa's elegant writing and shifts the bird to his shoulder, unsurprised as the raven tucks its head beneath its wing, content with its new perch.

Summer trots obediently at his side as he heads for his Lord Father's solar. Bran opens the scroll as he walks, it's addressed to Jon, and the news it bares is unsurprising to him; word of Ser Jamie Lannister's attack on their Lord Father. He crumples the note in his hand. In their last life, Jon had gone to the Wall and Bran hadn't woke until Lady was sacrificed and his Lady Mother had left for Kings Landing. Jon waking in this life, and abandoning the dream of his last life to be a Watcher on the Wall, had caused a ripple effect; he now has his legs, Jon's true parentage has been revealed and his Lady Mother hasn't left Winterfell... but still, Bran knows it will be his Lord Father's head upon the block that will begin the War of the Five Kings.

Entering the Solar he finds Robb seated behind their Lord Father's desk; he looks every inch the Lord of Winterfell, acting though he may be. Jon's reclining against a wall behind Robb, and Bran thinks he's never seen his brother so at ease in Winterfell in either lifetime. Without a word, he hands the scroll to Jon, and sits in one of the vacant chairs opposite Robb, his eldest brother fixing him with a questioning stare as he sees the sleeping raven on his shoulder.

Jon unfurls the crumpled scroll, and Bran knows the instant his brother recognises Sansa's hand, for his features soften, and he breathes a little easier... until he reads what news the letter contains. Jon's eyes are colder than the wall when he looks up, and Bran feels like a boy playing at war… and losing. "Fa-Lord Stark has been attacked."

"What?" Robb's on his feet in an instant, "what _idiot_ would attack the Hand of the King?" Jon hands him the letter, and he reads it quickly. "The Kingslayer?" He questions, disbelief etched across his strong features.

" _Ser_ Jamie Lannister of the Kingsguard." Bran scoffs, drawing his brothers' eyes. "He _earned_ the nickname that has followed him since he slew the Mad King, he forsook his duty, and thrust his sword through his King when Aerys had his back turned. It should not be shocking to you Robb, that such a man would show no hesitation in attacking the Hand of the King… after all, what's the Hand when you've already slain a King?"

Jon grimaces, and Bran knows it's the reminder of his Grandfather that's caused the expression. "Robb, do not forget that this is House Lannister's third attack against House Stark in less than a moon, first Bran, and now _Father_. Jory and his men are dead, they were good men, loyal men, and their deaths," Jon crosses his arms, "they died protecting their Lord yes, but their Lord should never have set foot in the Lions' Den."

Robb nods, and Bran is surprised as his eldest brother grips his shoulder tightly. "I can hardly forget." Bran looks up at Robb and offers him a soft smile. Robb was everything he wanted to be as a child, strong, noble… and the Heir to Winterfell. In his last life, it was his legs that stopped him, and in this life, it's the years he's lived, and the destiny he knows he must complete. "Keep an eye on Jon would you?" Robb grins at him like he's a child, and Bran fights the urge to correct his eldest brother; he hasn't truly been a child since Jamie Lannister threw him from the window, even less so now after awakening in this life. "I need to find our Lady Mother, she shouldn't hear this from any but me."

Grey Wind and Nymeria follow at Robb's heels as he leaves the Solar, and Jon surveys him in askance. "In the Godswood," Jon begins, and Bran notes the set of his jaw, the storm in his eyes. "You told me that the first war to come, the War of Five Kings or War of Seven Kingdoms, whatever you wish to call it, would _always_ begin with Lord Stark's head upon the executioner's block… you should have _seen_ it, you could have _stopped_ it." Jon shakes his head, and Bran wonders how he will take the truth. "Why didn't you Bran?"

"Coming back here, starting again…" Bran starts, and he stops, swallowing tightly. "You don't know what you dipped into when you sacrificed yourself beneath the Heart Tree. You offered yourself, all of yourself to the Old Gods… There was magic in what you did the night you were crowned King in the North, ancient magic. You Jon, are the culmination of two bloodlines, two lines which should never have been linked, there is magic in blood Jon, and magic like that… has a cost. I didn't see this Jon, but if I had… I wouldn't have stopped it."

Jon's incredulous, but before he can speak, Bran continues, "I would not have stopped it Jon, because it was our Lord Father's death in our last life, that truly began the first War. We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark. House Lannister will not fall, unless we _make_ them fall. House Stark will not go to war for anything less than our Lord's death, Jon. In our last life Robert Baratheon was murdered by House Lannister but despite our Lord Father's loyalty, House Stark would not have gone to war in Robert's name, our Lord Father could have been sent to the Wall a traitor to the realm, but House Stark would have abided and we would have remained neutral in the War for the Seven Kingdoms, holding the North and keeping our family safe. In this life Jon, going to War in Robert's name is no more an option than going to War in _your_ name. You are the last surviving heir of Rhaegar, the Iron Throne is yours by _right_ , by _birth_. We came back to change the fate of our family, but even then, not all of us will survive."

Jon shakes his head. "We came back to _save_ our family Bran, all of our family."

"No." He contradicts his cousin. "We came back to _win_ , we came back to _conquer_. We came back to crown Robb as King in the North, we came back to strengthen the Seven Kingdoms before the Long Night, we came back to save Rickon and Arya and Sansa and Jojen and Hodor- we came back Jon, to _live."_

He sees Jon's conflict; it's written across his strong features like Sansa's elegant hand across the parchment the raven delivered, his usually stoic brother caught in turmoil. Bran's aware Jon's always known the cruelty of the world, but the hope Jon had been gifted upon waking so young again is waning… his certainty of his place stripped, with the truth of his birth revealed. Jon had surrendered a Kingship he didn't believe himself worth of, only to find, of all the people in Westeros with the desire for a crown, only he was truly destined to bare one.

Jon doesn't reply and Bran won't make him speak.

"Come Summer," Bran calls softly, "We have an old friend to find." He looks to Jon, an impish grin on his lips. "Robb requested I keep an eye on you Brother, you best follow."

"Brat." Jon whispers, but follows nonetheless as he leaves the Solar, the three Direwolves bounding ahead, Jon shortening his stride to fall into step aside him. Bran smiles, he'll never be used to his legs working as well in this life as they do in his dreams, he suspects only when he's old, his hair grey and his bones weary, will this feeling fade.

"Your friend," Jon questions, as they leave in Great Keep and head for the Hunter's Gate, "She was with you when you went Beyond the wall?"

Bran shakes his head, the last he saw Osha, was with Rickon on her back, leading him to the supposed safety of their Lord Father's most faithful Bannermen, House Umber. "Had she come with us Beyond the Wall, I dare say our journey would have been far shorter, and far safer. No, she took Rickon to Last Hearth, and died at Winterfell with Ramsey Bolton's knife in her neck, trying to secure Rickon's freedom."

The Wolfswood is dark, the little light that breaks through the thick canopy of leaves casting eerie shadows of the old Oaks and Ironwoods, the wind picks up, tugging at the branches high above them, the trees creaking and whining in protest. Bran finds the wood familiar, comforting, it reminds him of his time beneath the Weirwood Beyond the Wall, resting between the roots that Brynden had become a part of. Jon, he notes, clutches the sword at his side with a tighter grip, it's not Longclaw, the Valerian Steel blade that Jeor Mormont gifted him in his last life, but on this side of the Wall, Bran knows Mikken's work will endure.

"I trust your draw is still as swift?" Bran asks as he and Jon cross the thin stream, he looks forward as Summer, Lady and Ghost bound ahead.

"Aye." Jon answers.

Bran can hear them, they're not as silent as they should be in the unfamiliar territory, the soft grass muffles their footsteps better than snow would, but as twigs snap and rocks crunch, they give away their position with every step.

"Deserters deserve no mercy." Bran growls, and Jon spins, drawing the sword Mikken forged but did not name, and embeds it to the hilt in the man draped in the frayed black furs of the Men of the Nights Watch. He falls heavily and Jon tugs his weapon from the man with all the ease of a warrior, and uses the momentum to slice the throat of the second deserter; a quicker death than that of his brother.

Bran bounces on the balls of his feet, knife drawn, evading Osha's practiced strikes with all the haphazard grace of an untrained boy still growing into his limbs, but she's weak, hungry, and he has the upper hand, and when Jon levels his bloody blade at the woman who mothered him when his own mother failed, Bran relaxes, returning his knife to the sheath at his calf.

"Lower your weapon Spearwife." Jon growls.

Osha glares, this is the Woman he remembers, all fire and defiance, fierce in the face of danger. "Lower yours Kneeler, you just murdered my friends, why should I expect different treatment."

"You didn't betray your solemn vows, your life is not for us to take." Bran answers. He's missed Osha, and remembers how ferociously she opposed him following Jojen's visions and the raven Beyond the Wall. "Lower your sword Jon, she's after asylum, not blood."

Jon sheaths his sword. "Tell me Spearwife, what could make a warrior of the Free Folk flee the North for the South, when Mance Rayder's offered his protection to every tribe and clan from the Wall to the Land of Always Winter?"

"You know a lot for a Kneeler." Osha growls.

Jon grins, and Bran wonders if his brother is remembering the red haired Wildling he loved so fiercely. "Aye that I do."

"Then you know the stories. You know what creatures reside in the Land of Always Winter, you know the horror the Other's wrought, in the Long Night when the dead was raised to fight the living. You Southerners think them nothing but myth and legend, but I've seen the _things_ they raise, I've seen the black magic they use, the cold wins are rising boy, and all who live North of the Wall… we'll pay the price."

Bran remembers Osha's anger when he told her he wasn't heading for Jon at Castle Black, but beyond, into the wild, cold North to the Raven, he remembers her horror, the pain in her voice as she recounted her lover's death. He won't disappoint her in this life, he won't force her away, he won't let her die with Lord Bolton's Bastard's knife in her neck, and he's struck with just how much he wants her to _live._

" _I had a man once, a_ good _man, Bruny his name was. I was his, and he was mine. But one night Bruny disappears. People said he left me... but I knew him, he'd never leave me. Not for long. I knew he'd come back and he did… he came in through the back of the hut. Only it wasn't Bruny, not really, his skin was pale, like a dead mans, his eyes bluer than clear sky... he came at me, grabbed me by the neck, and squeezed so hard I could feel the life slipping out of me. I don't know how I got the knife, but when I did I stuck it deep into his heart… and he hardly seemed to notice. I had to burn our hut down, with him inside... I didn't ask the Gods what it meant, I didn't need to, I already knew... it meant the North was no place for men to be… not anymore."_

Bran eyes the spear Osha's lowered, perhaps she'll teach him to fight in this life, for he knows when the Long Night comes, they'll need every man, woman and child to fight.

"Mande Rayder thinks crossing the Wall will save his people… when the Long Night comes, not even that will be enough to save us all." Jon's voice is grim, and Bran knows he's lost in the memory of Hardhome, the Free Folk he thought he could save, and the lives he failed.

Osha rights the spear. "You speak of Mance Rayder like you've met the King Beyond the Wall, Stark."

"I'm not a Stark Spearwife." Jon replies, and Bran notes Jon's denial comes easier than he's ever heard it.

"A Bastard then?" Osha questions. "There's no shame in being a Bastard Beyond the Wall boy, men can rise and men can fall, but death will claim us all in the end."

Jon ignores her. "We won't insult you by asking you to kneel Spearwife. You want asylum here, and we will give it… for a price."

"And what price would that be _boy_?" Osha growls and Bran wonders if she'll just gore them and run.

"I need a teacher." Bran speaks, "You fight in a way that none this side of the Wall do, the price for asylum is tutelage, no more, no less, this I swear as an Heir of House Stark."

He watches Osha, the emotions that war on her strong features. As she stows the spear on her back, Bran knows he's got her, the wild woman who mothered him when his own mother failed, who fought for them when no one else would. "The word of a Stark is worth much, even Beyond the Wall. What do I call ye Little Lord?"

Bran grins and gestures to Jon. "My brother, Jon, and I'm Bran." He feels like a child again, giddy, excited, he's missed her, so much when he was Beyond the Wall and saw her death, and now, she's alive and she's _here._

"Call me Osha Little Lord."

* * *

 **AN:** Thankfully my muse made a reappearance and look, so has Osha.

Thank you again for every review, follow and favourite, they keep me writing and enthused about this fic.


	13. XIII - Promise me Arya

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XIII –** _Sansa_

* * *

She wants to run.

Joffrey clasps the intricately carved Lion pendant around her neck, the same gilded chain he'd clamped around her throat in her last life, and she can't help but be reminded of the iron shackle the Bastard had locked around Theon's neck when he'd transformed him into Reek. She wants to rip it off, melt it to scrap… if only to fashion it into a sharp pin to stab into Joffrey's jugular.

Still, Sansa smiles, and plays her part well, she remembers the expression well, she saw it on Margaery's painted lips often in her last life, whenever she smiled at the golden monster. He draws closer and her skin crawls, but she leans into him nonetheless, allowing him to capture her lips, he's inexperienced, nothing more than a boy, but when he releases her lips she sighs forlornly, gazing at him with lidded eyes.

"You're my Lady." He whispers, and Sansa thinks it odd, to see such a soft expression on the features of a monster. "From this day, until my last day.

"And you are my Prince," Sansa replies, her voice is light and the lie is familiar. "From this day, until my last day."

She remembers saying the words before the High Septon with Tyrion Lannister at her side, and before the Old Gods at Winterfell. She remembers the Bastard Bolton grasping her hand so tightly she couldn't feel her fingertips… and the horror that followed her second set of vows.

"You will be Queen one day," Joffrey smiles, and Sansa imagines he thinks the expression charming. "And you will rule at my side from the Last Hearth in the North to the Saltshore in the South, and when you bare my children our dynasty will rival that of the Targaryen rule of old."

She touches the necklace at her throat, "I long for the day," she whispers, _that Jon hands me your head on a spike._

Joffrey releases her waist and offers her a bow. She curtsies in return, dipping low and averting her eyes and she sees the satisfaction gleaming in his hateful eyes at her show of respect when she looks up. He makes her sick, and she's glad to see the back of him as he turns on his heel, leaving her alone her knees shaking horribly beneath her skirts, her heart pounding and her breath gone. Bile rises in her throat as she rips the pendant from her neck, the chain slipping through her fingers like water through a sieve. She clutches at the table, straightening only when her Lord Father enters the open room, and she forces an air of calm; she will not show weakness, not here in Kings Landing, not even to her Father.

"Sansa." He calls. He leans heavily on his cane, his leg still smarting after Jamie Lannister's attack. "Come, I need to speak to you and Arya."

She nods, and follows him to his solar, his limp is pronounced, his pain revealed for all in Kings Landing to see, her Lord Father never one for the smoke and mirrors of the Capital. There's no strategy in his pain, not like Willas Tyrell who hides his true range of movement behind the guise of a permanently crippled heir, her Lord Father bares his weakness like a man with nothing to hide, though she knows he conceals secrets more deadly than most.

Arya's waiting in the solar, as impatient as ever, her knee bouncing as she lounges on a chest, all long limbs and dark hair. Sansa daintily sits beside her, Arya's expression turning sullen as she straightens her back and juts out her chin, as defiant as ever in the face of Sansa's poised elegance. It takes Sansa a moment, before the familiarity of the situation reminds her of the conversation they had here in her last life.

" _I don't want someone who's brave and gentle and strong, I want him! I'm supposed to marry Prince Joffrey, I love him and I am meant to be his Queen and have his babies."_

 _Stupid_ she thinks, _stupid little girl._

"I'm sending you both back to Winterfell."

Arya gasps. "Are you dying? Because of your leg? Is that why you're sending us home?"

"No!" Their Lord Father denies, but Arya cuts him off.

"Father you can't, I've got my lessons with Syrio, I'm finally getting good!"

"This isn't a punishment." Eddard sighs. "I want you both back in Winterfell for your own safety."

"Can we take Syrio back with us?"

Sansa breaks her silence, and places a hand on Arya's arm. "Ser Rodrik taught both our elder Brothers, Sister, he'll teach you too."

"Ser Rodrik doesn't teach girls!" Arya moans, shaking off her hand.

"Father," Sansa starts, "If we are to return to Winterfell, would my betrothal to Queen Cersei's Golden Lion be broken?"

"The Lion's not his sigil you idiot." Arya snaps, and Sansa doesn't fight the smirk that her Sister's words produce. "He's a Stag like his Father."

Sansa rolls her eyes as their Lord Father, lost in his thoughts, absently answers. Sansa spies the old genealogy text open on his desk, the very same as the one in the Library at Winterfell, the one they'd learned from in their lessons as children. "When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you. Someone who's brave, and gentle and strong."

She thinks of Jon, brave and gentle and strong, and idly wonders what it'd be like, married to such a man; a love match, instead of being sold to the highest bidder who believed the last Trueborn heir of Winterfell to be the key to claiming the North.

"Go on girls, fetch your Septa and start packing your things. You'll leave on the morrow."

Sullenly Arya nods, dragging her feet as she returns to her chambers and as soon as the heavy wood door is closed, Sansa takes her leave. She escapes from the Tower of the Hand with the same ease as when she left for the Godswood just nights previously, wandering the Great Keep with no real purpose until she finds herself in the midst of the Royal Gardens, in the same cove as she first met the aptly named Queen of Thorns in her last life. The view is as stunning as ever and as she watches the sea ebb and flow, she wonders if she'll ever meet Olenna Tyrell in this life… the old battleaxe surviving the Mad Queen's wildfire purge in her last, only by the luck of being far from Kings Landing when the explosion occurred.

It feels off, being in this part of the Royal Gardens without Margaery at her side, but the familiarity, even without Olenna's fine silks decorating the wooden pergola and her many handmaidens fluttering about, sets her at ease. She feels unclean, in the same way she felt whenever Littlefinger took her hand, or whispered his interpretation of the truth in her ears. The taste of Joffrey's kiss lingers on her lips and her skin burns beneath her dress where his hands rested, this body hasn't faced the horrors of her last life, but she remembers the trauma all too well, and whispers a prayer to the Old Gods, begging not to face them again.

Her skin itches, her instincts scream at her to run; she doesn't need to stay here, her mind tells her, not really, she could return to Winterfell, be with Jon and Rickon and Bran and Robb, she could be safe and loved and… entirely alone, when they leave to fight the war they can't avoid.

 _Stupid little girl_ the darker part of her mind whispers. It's the same part of her that smiled when she left Ramsey Bolton to his ravenous hounds and felt nothing when Joffrey Baratheon choked on poisoned wine before her eyes. It's the part of her that grew in the place of the stupid little girl she's returned to, when she finally realised that whilst the world was cruel… and people were worse.

It's not her destiny to be reunited with Jon, with her Family, with her Mother and Brothers, not until Cersei's met her end, and taken Joffrey with her.

"My brother said I'd find you here."

Sansa doesn't turn as he appears aside her, leaning against the stone in rehearsed relaxation, his eyes as glued to the crystal water as hers. "Did he?" She asks. This part of the Royal Garden wasn't patrolled by the Guard, but she didn't trust one of Vary's little birds weren't hiding in the hedges that hide the cove from prying eyes.

"He did, he said you liked pretty things, and this is the only part of the Royal Gardens where roses grow strong."

She looks to him and notes the rose held in his grasp, a Blue Winter Rose, though she knows not where he's gotten it, she smiles, a living symbol of Rhaegar Targaryen's adoration for Lyanna Stark... other, than their _son_.

"The significance is not lost on you I see."

Sansa laughs, "The truth of your House's loyalty revealed, how _shocking."_

He smirks. "Hardly as shocking as the true loyalty of _your_ House."

She hums softly. "He has returned home then?"

"He left rather _hastily_ , your doing?"

Sansa grins, her eyes following a ship as it sails ever closer to the docks. "Perhaps. Will you be following him?"

"Yes."

"I have a… _gift_ ," Sansa says lightly, though her throat tightens horribly and her heart beats ever louder, "a _Key_ if you will… could I trust you to remain in possession?"

He opens his mouth and she cuts him off. " _Only_ you."

"And what would I gain from this _Key_?"

Sansa smiles. "Allies."

"I don't need allies."

Sansa raises a brow. "In but a few hours you will, and you will thank me then, when I give you the _Key_ to gaining the most valuable of them all."

"He told me to trust you, and he is _rarely_ wrong." He kicks off from the wall, and Sansa looks at him then, he's so young, his hair longer than when she met him again in Kings Landing after his lover's death, his eyes bluer, clear and no longer clouded with grief. "If what you say is to be, come midnight I'll be heading South… your _Key_ in hand."

Sansa stays, long after he's left, returning to his lover's side, watching the ships sail into the busy port below. She remembers the devastation she felt, standing in this spot so long ago, watching her escape from Kings Landing sail away without her, because she'd believed so throughly that Margaery's plan to marry her to Ser Loras would be without interference from the Lannisters.

She returns to the Red Keep when the sun begins to set, she walks slowly, languidly, her last moment of quiet before the storm but the castle is abuzz, rumours spreading swifter than Wildfire, the King's injury known now from Sunspear to the Wall. It's only when she returns to the Tower of the Hand, and catches Lord Renly leaving, that she knows the King has succumbed to the wound from the boar. He barely acknowledges her as he passes, a swift nod and a rushed "My Lady.", is all she receives, and she can't help but wonder as he hurries by, how many lustful whispers it took from Loras between the sheets, to convince Renly to claim the Iron Throne as his own.

"My Lord." Sansa responds, but he's already too far passed to hear.

The hours pass slowly, and she's nervous, the sun takes too long to completely disappear, and the sky doesn't darken as quickly as she hopes, but the cloud cover is thick, and the moon waning, and she breathes a little easier, it's almost a Dark Moon, and it seems the Gods themselves aiding her plan. The Tower of the Hand is quiet, and she slips from her chambers with the ease of practice, crossing to Arya's chamber. The wooden door is heavy, but it doesn't creak and as she lightly sits aside Arya, she can't help notice her sweet sister seems so small, huddled beneath the light blankets here, and imagines she'd seem smaller still, were she covered in furs.

"Arya." Sansa whispers.

Her sweet sister stirs, waking slowly. "Sansa?" She questions, and Sansa's surprised when she opens her eyes, she'd half suspected hostility in her sister's eyes, but finds none as Arya looks up at her sleepily.

"Arya I need you to listen to me."

"Can I listen to you in the morning?" Arya mumbles, clutching at the blankets.

Sansa shakes her head. "No sister, you must listen to me now, Kings Landing is not safe for us anymore."

"Sansa," Arya rolls over, and sits up, "of course it's safe here, Father wouldn't have brought us here if it weren't safe for us."

"Ser Jamie Lannister attacked our Father, and he will not answer for the crime Sister! He's the Queen's brother, the _son_ of the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. Tywin Lannister bows to no one, not even King Robert." Sansa whispers fiercely, "You must listen to me Arya, you are leaving Kings Landing tonight."

"Leaving? Sansa-"

She hands Arya clothing, leather pants for riding, a fur lined coat with a hood to hide her long hair, her belt for Needle. "No matter what you hear from Kings Landing, no matter what happens when you leave here sister, you must stay with who I send you with, until Robb or Jon comes for you. Promise me Arya, promise me!"

Arya, clothed warmly, with Needle strapped round her waist and her boots tied, nods. Sansa sees her hands shake. "I promise."

Sansa takes Arya's hand, and leads them from the Tower, traversing the Red Keep with ease of those who've wandered the red stone halls before. She peers round corners and down flights of stairs before taking them, she'll not risk being caught, not with so much at stake, not with Arya's _life_ at stake. In their last life, Arya had disappeared, and even after she and Jon returned to Winterfell, they heard nothing of their littlest sister's fate aside from the few words she'd gotten from Brienne on the way to the Wall. They blend into the shadows, their dark clothes more at home in the North at Winterfell, than in the South at Kings Landing, and it's not until they've passed the Crown's stables, and into the sprawling barn that house the steeds of Guests that Sansa allows them to be seen.

She spies him easily, and he turns, his emotions not as well masked as those of his eldest brother. He eyes Arya warily and Sansa knows he wasn't expecting the _key_ to be a child, a… _girl._

"My Lord." Sansa smirks, curtsying.

"My Lady." Loras bows, ever respectful. "I did not expect the _Key_ you offered me to be a child."

Arya shifts, and Sansa tightens her hold on Arya's hand, lest her wild sister snap at the man who'll be her escape. She knows what Arya wants to shout, _I'm not a child,_ she'd yell, as though her saying so would make it true.

"And yet here we are." Sansa speaks. "Will you uphold our bargain?"

Ser Loras nods, and she sees that glint in his eyes, that cunning gleam that all Tyrell's hide in their eyes, the wily expression Olenna wore when offering her condolences but pulled a vile of poison from her neck, the artful smile Margaery smiled when she suggested Loras for a husband despite his preferences, the knowing stare Willas gave her, when he realised she knew more than she revealed.

" _Only me."_ He muses, and stares at her, in much the same way his eldest brother did in the Godswood nights past. "My brother returned to me a rose before he left Kings Landing, a gift for my _lover_ he said… a rose, I had gifted to you. You _know._ "

Sansa acknowledges his words with a subtle nod. "Only you." She bids and he nods, understanding why she chose _him._

"I will safeguard your sister, as I would safeguard my own." Ser Loras bows. "I will protect her, My Lady, until I can return her to the North."

"Swear it."

"On my honour." He whispers.

She nods, and kneels before Arya. She's so small, her sweet sister, so much smaller than she remembers, and Sansa grips her tightly, so tightly she almost fears Arya will break in two. "Arya." She whispers, "The letter in your pocket, as soon as you are able, find a raven, and send it to Jon… they will know where you are, and they will come for you."

"You're not coming with me?" Arya's voice wavers as she asks, and Sansa suspects her eyes are filled with tears.

"It's not my time to escape, sweet sister, I fear the South is not done with me yet." Sansa answers softly. "You belong in the North Arya, and you'll get back there, far sooner than I."

Arya clutches at her waist, holding her ever tighter, words tumbling from her lips so quietly Sansa almost misses them. "I'm scared."

Sansa presses a kiss to the top of her head, "Good," she whispers, "fear will keep you alive. Remember the words our Lord Father told us."

"Winter is coming." Arya whispers.

Sansa pulls back, and holds both her hands tightly. "Winter is almost here Arya, and when the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies…"

"But the Pack survives." Arya finishes. "Sansa, if I go, you'll be alone in Kings Landing."

"I'll have Father." Sansa whispers, though she can't bring herself to believe it. "Our brothers will come for you Arya... you're going home." Sansa stands, and lets her go. Ser Loras appears at their sides, astride a great palomino Destrier, and offers his hand to Arya. She takes it warily, but at Sansa's encouraging nod she relaxes, and allows herself to be pulled up, and seated behind the Knight of the Flowers.

Arya holds Ser Loras tightly as she looks down to her. "Be safe Sansa."

She watches them as they disappear into the darkness, the thunderous sound of a hundred horses galloping from the City lingering long after she's lost sight of them, and she prays, to every God she can name, to every God she's ever believed in, to every pantheon she can remember… that Arya _live_.

"Be safe… little sister."

She returns to the Tower of the Hand, and watches the sun rise over Kings Landing, bathing the Capital in light, turning the bright red stones of the Red Keep orange, and chasing away the last of the darkness. This she knows, is the end of her peace... soon she'll be the lone Wolf among Lions.

* * *

 **AN:** Arya's heading South instead of North, and Sansa will soon be all alone in Kings Landing, unless Ned can keep his head.


	14. XIV - Call the Banners

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XIV –** _Jon_

* * *

Jon eyes the scroll Maester Luwin's handed Robb with veiled trepidation. It's in Sansa's hand, just as the last letter they received from the capital, but it's addressed to Robb, against Sansa's norm of addressing her few letters home to him.

"Treason?" Robb asks, disbelief colouring his tone. "Sansa wrote this?"

Maester Luwin sighs, and Jon doesn't think he's seen the old Maester look so grim. "It is your sister's hand yes, but the Queen's words. You're summoned to Kings Landing to swear fealty to the new King."

"Joffrey puts my Father in chains. Now he wants his ass kissed?" Robb growls.

Catelyn looks stricken and Jon cannot blame her, the very thought of Arya and Sansa, alone in the Lion's Den makes his heart clench. Even with Sansa's foreknowledge, Kings Landing is a dangerous place to reside, and it would be more so again, should Joffrey follow the path of their last life, and their Lord Father lose his head.

"Robb..." She speaks softly, as though the words hurt and Jon suspects they do. "You cannot ignore this, you must go."

"My Lady is right." Maester Luwin agrees. "This is a royal command My Lord, if you should refuse to obey..."

"I won't refuse." Robb says darkly, crumpling the scroll in his hand. "His Grace summons me to Kings Landing and, I'll go to Kings Landing... but not alone." Robb looks up, and Jon catches his eye, he knows what's coming, he's been waiting for it since he woke beneath the Heart Tree. "Call the Banners."

"All of them My Lord?"

"They've all sworn to defend my Father have they not?"

"They have." Maester Luwin nods.

"Now we see what their words are worth." Robb speaks, and Jon watches him closely.

His brother's hands are shaking, and Jon shifts uneasily, in this moment he's forcibly reminded just how young Robb truly is, he's a boy of seven and ten, too young to step into his Lord Father's shoes, too young to begin a war, too young to have _died_ fighting a war. Jon crosses his arms, lest his own hands begin to shake. The stakes are higher here, he'd lived and died and lived again in his last life, and now in this one he's heaved a new burden upon his own shoulders, and he's frightened, for all he sees are children, playing at war.

Theon breaks the silence that fell upon Maester Luwin's exit. "You're afraid."

"I must be." Robb whispers, as he stares at his shaking hands.

"Good." Theon replies. "It means you're not stupid."

Catelyn glares. "What do you know of war? What do any of you know of War? You are _children!"_

Robb matches her glare with a fierce one of his own, and speaks loudly. "I know that my Lord Father is at the Mercy of a _child_ , because _you_ chose to take Tyrion Lannister as payment for his siblings crimes!"

Catelyn though chagrined, holds his stare. "I will not have anyone attack a child of mine without consequence!"

"Tyrion Lannister did not attack your child!" Robb yells. His fists clench, but Jon's proud when he calms. "I understand why you did it Mother, but now we're facing the consequences of _your_ actions."

Catelyn, her anger visibly fading, nods. "You made the right choice calling the Banners." She says, "Were you to step into Kings Landing with anything less than an Army at your back, you would never be allowed to leave."

"I know what happened to the Targaryen children when the Mad King fell Mother." Robb answers quietly and Jon can feel his brother's eyes upon him. "I know what my fate would be."

Jon knows, had the truth of his birth been revealed, so many years earlier, that he would have shared the fates of his siblings. Rhaenys, the little tot, stabbed until there was more holes than body, and the babe Aegon, his tiny head dashed upon the wall by Gregor Clegane, the monster honoured with a Knighthood for his _service_. He can't even imagine them- would they have taken after their Lady Mother Elia, all coffee skin and dark eyes, maybe after their Lord Father, or perhaps a mixture of the two? Perhaps they'd change, after touching an open flame, and wake to find their eyes turn violet when the light of an open flame catches them right and their hair turning silver, one strand at a time.

"Then you know that Tywin Lannister is not to be trifled with, you know the atrocities committed on his orders, in his name. Understand this my son, the years have not made him kinder."

"Our best hope, our only hope, is to meet them on the Battlefield, and strike them hard, like the Kings of old." Robb answers.

Jon sees Theon nod and he looks to the youngest Greyjoy, at the boy raised alongside them; conflicted. He remembers all too well the boy Theon is now, the boy who craves the glory of a fight, who wants, desperately, to blood his blade and put heads on spikes. He remembers it was this Theon who put Winterfell to the torch, beheaded Ser Rodrik and murdered two innocent children, blackening the bodies with fire when he could not find the true targets of his ire; Bran and Rickon. He remembers the devastation he felt when he'd heard, the truth only revealed when Sansa arrived at gates of Castle Black, her life only her own, because of Theon's redemption. He remembers Eddard returning to Winterfell with Theon at his side, the frightened boy taken from his Lord Father as collateral to keep the Iron Islands in line and how quickly he learnt his place as a ward of House Stark. It strikes Jon then, just _why_ Theon forcibly reminded him of his place so often as children... because Theon, could never forget his. For all Theon's talk of the Iron Islands, he'd never known any Father but Eddard Stark; he knows nothing of the Iron Price, of the Drowned God or his Lord Father, Jon realises.

Theon, is as much Eddard Stark's son, as he is.

"The full force of the North cannot be raised at such short notice." Catelyn says, and Robb nods. "You'll have twenty thousand men at most."

"Theon, fetch Father's map from his Solar." Robb orders, and Theon nods. Jon's almost surprised by the respect Theon shows to Robb, but he supposes, Theon's always been loyal to Robb... until he wasn't.

Robb waits until Theon is out of sight, and earshot, before he speaks again. "I'm sorry." He says softly, "About-"

Jon shakes his head. "I didn't know them." He answers, his own voice sounds off to his ears, rougher, emotive, _wrong_. "I'll never know any of them."

A hand grasps his own, and he's taken aback to find it's Catelyn offering him the little comfort. He nods, and she lets him go, just as Theon returns, map in hand. He spreads it across the High Table, and Westeros is laid bare before them.

"The Westerlands and the Crownlands can raise seventy thousand men between them," Catelyn begins, pointing to the aforementioned areas of the Map. "The Stormlands can field thirty thousand men, and the Reach seventy thousand. My Father can raise perhaps forty thousand, and my sister the same."

"What of Dorne?" Robb asks.

"Perhaps fifty thousand, perhaps more, only the House Martell knows the true number of men they can raise."

Jon eyes the map, and remembers the declaration Stannis Baratheon sent from the Wall to Sunspear, the truth of Joffrey _Waters'_ birth. "Are we certain that Joffrey is Robert Baratheon's son?" Catelyn stops. Robb and Theon look up from the map, and Jon feels vaguely uncomfortable with all their eyes on him, unused to it now, back in this body. "Bran was thrown from the top of the Broken Tower for what he witnessed there and whilst he may not remember what he saw, I can remember what I heard, and who I saw leave."

"The Queen and her brother." Catelyn growls.

"Aye." Jon nods. "We've all seen the little prick, he looks more Lannister than even the Imp."

She looks again to the map, lingering on the Stormlands. "If Joffrey is not Robert's son, then the younger two aren't either. If that is the case, the crown would fall to Stannis Baratheon, the King's eldest Brother."

"But," Catelyn continues, "The Storm Lords aren't likely to follow him, not after the Siege of Storms End, they haven't forgotten the loss of their Heirs under Stannis's command. Renly was a boy when we last met, but the Storm Lords will raise him to the Iron Throne before they bend the knee to Stannis."

Robb nods. "So the force of the Stormlands will be split."

"Not evenly," Catleyn agrees, "but split nonetheless."

Theon looks between them. "Forgive me My Lady, but we're only marching on the Westerlands and the Crownlands, what does the Reach and the Southlands mean to us. What does Dorne mean to us?"

"Allies, Theon." Jon answers. "They mean allies."

"If we need allies, my Father-"

"No." Catelyn scowls. "Your Lord Father gave you to House Stark, hostage by his marker, and ward by ours. He bent the knee to Robert Baratheon only when he realised it was his head if he didn't, he would no more ally with House Stark than House Lannister would."

Theon, shamed, looks away. "I could go to him, speak-"

"No Theon." Catelyn growls. "Your place is here, beside your Lord."

"House Stark is not my House." He whispers.

"It is as much your House as Jon's." Robb growls, putting an end to Theon's protests. "You may not have our name, but you are our brother."

Jon nods his agreement, to the clear surprise of Theon, who hides his tearful eyes with all the grace he can muster. Jon speaks, and draws the attention back to himself, offering Theon a moment of reprieve. "Winter is Coming, we have years at best and months at worst and the North isn't ready for a long winter... and when we go to War..."

"The supply lines from the South will be cut off." Robb finishes. "How will we feed our people, when we can't even protect our Lord?" He asks, leaning on his fists as he lingers over the map. Jon sees the visible _weight_ on his shoulders, the entirety of the North, resting on Robb's back. "White Harbour!" He suddenly exclaims, just as the silence was beginning to tarry and twists the map about until they're looking at the North instead of the South.

Jon looks beyond the straight line that marks the Wall, and thinks he could fill in the blanks; mark where Mance Rayder's Free Folk army is gathering, and where Tormund will lead his men to Climb the Wall, he could mark Hardhome and Craster's Keep and the cave where he bedded Ygritte... he remembers the sound of Olly's arrow punching through her chest, the wet _thwack_ , and the blood that spewed from her lips as she fell.

 _"We should have stayed in that cave."_

 _"We'll go back there."_

" _You know nothing… Jon… Snow…"_

He looks to Robb, and remembers Rickon, felled in much the same way as Ygritte, a brutal death, for one so young, and recalls the horrific tales he heard of Robb's last breaths, how he'd taken arrow after arrow, until finally, Roose Bolton thrust a dagger in his heart.

"White Harbour is the only Port in the North and the fifth biggest city in Westeros. The defences are crumbling, but if we repair and strengthen them, we can open more Trade routes along the White Knife."

"That's all well and good Robb," Catelyn starts, "But how do you expect this to be done, when you take every Northern Son to War?"

Robb shakes his head. "No, not every Northern Son Mother. You said so yourself, with such a short time frame I can raise but twenty thousand. The full strength of the North is forty-five thousand, more if we count the Mountain Clans, the Sons that remain, the Daughters that remain, can strengthen the North for the coming Winter. We need to open supply lines between White Harbor and the Free Cities, we need to strengthen every holdfast from the Gift to The Neck-"

Theon raises his head. "We need ships. The North doesn't have a Navel Power." He says, looking to the blue seas surrounding Westeros. "We haven't had strength at sea since the Northern Kings of Old, when Brandon the Burner set fire to the remaining fleet of Brandon the Shipwright."

Robb raises an eyebrow. "You did pay attention when Maester Luwin spoke, I always wondered."

Theon rolls his eyes. "Prick." He mutters, but there's no real heat in his retort Jon notices. "You'll need ships to trade with the Free Cities, and War Ships, if you want to sail on Kings Landing. The Royal Fleet is docked at Dragonstone, and if you're right about Stannis Baratheon declaring himself King, that fleet is his. The Lannister Fleet was burned by my eldest brother during the Rebellion, and as far as Maester Luwin has taught us, they haven't built another, which means aside from the Iron Islands, only House Redwyne hold a fleet and they will go wherever House Tyrell does."

Catelyn nods, and Jon sees Theon's barely concealed pride at her agreement. "Trade ships first. Perhaps we'll find more allies in the Free Cities." She says, and Jon feels her eyes upon him. He knows what she's implying, _who_ , Catelyn's implying to aid them from across the Narrow Sea, but _she_ is so far away, with so little resources, and there's allies much closer to home, with far more to gain, and far more to lose.

"What about Beyond the Wall?" He asks, and is greeted with silence.

" _Wildlings_?" Theon baulks.

"Free Folk." Jon corrects absently, eyes still lingering on the section of the map he knows Mance's army gathers. They'll soon be fighting a war on all fronts, in the South against House Lannister, in the North itself should House Bolton prove to be as traitorous in this life as his last, and finally in the far North... he knows the White Walkers are rising again, he remembers the face of the Night King, as he stared at him from the Dock at Hardhome, he can _vividly_ recall its eyes, as blue as ice, staring into his soul as the dead were raised to fight again. "Ninety clans gathering under one banner for the first time since in centuries. Not only would we remove a threat from the North, but we could bolster our host with willing bodies."

"You want to ally with _savages?_ " Theon asks disbelievingly.

"They're the same as you or I." Jon snaps, "They just had the misfortune of being on the wrong side of the North when the Wall went up. I've seen you eying Bran's Spearwife teacher, which side of the Wall exactly did you believe she hailed from Theon?"

Theon, dumbfounded doesn't answer. Robb however, laughs, and claps him on the shoulder. "You are far more idealistic than I believed brother."

"Free Folk have been leading raids against the Watchers on the Wall for centuries, and for the first time in centuries they're succeeding." Jon states grimly. "Of the nineteen holdfasts along the Wall, only three are manned; Castle Black, Shadow Tower and East Watch beside the Sea- The Night's Watch was ten thousand strong during Aegon's Conquest, now they number less than a thousand; they can barely protect the Wall let alone the settlers in the Gift."

"We hardly have the manpower to march against the Lannister's Jon, we cannot possibly bolster the Watch." Robb says and shakes his head. "I hardly see the need."

Jon stares at him, and repeats the words just spoken to him. "Then you are far more idealistic than _I_ believed brother."

"You don't honestly believe Old Nan's tales Jon?" Robb scoffs.

"Winter is Coming brother... it would be foolish not to."

 _"The White Walkers sleep beneath the ice for thousands of years. And when they wake up... I hope the Wall is high enough."_

Winterfell fills by the hour, the ravens flying swift and true to every sworn House in the North, the Bannermen of House Stark sending their fittest Sons, their most able fighters, and oft the Lords themselves, to answer the call. Jon watches from Robb's side as the Great Main Gates open wide, spilling men from every house into Wintertown, filling it to the brim, men from the Houses who come slower erecting tents outside the Great Gates, jovial as they sharpen swords and drink mead by the tankard, telling war stories over the open flames.

It's odd, to be seated at the Lord's table, at Robb's side and for none to protest, Jon thinks, as a server fills his cup with ale, the drink far smoother here than at the Wall. He eyes the men around the table, his Lord Father's friends, men who've fought at his side and answered his call, just as they've answered his eldest son's. He recognises one of the men a table below, Robett Glover, Galbart Glover's brother and successor, who refused the call when he and Sansa requested their aid in ousting the Bastard Bolton from Winterfell, but crowned him King when Lady Lyanna Mormont demanded it. He knows better than most that loyalty is fickle, and self preservation reigns.

Jon sees Dacey Mormont as she takes her seat aside Smalljon Umber, the mountain of a man blushing as he offers her a cup, and when she notices his gaze, she greets him with a nod. Jon recalls the first time they met, many years ago by his marker, few by hers, and Robb's instant infatuation... until he called her Lady, as is her title, and she trounced him in the Tiltyard for the unintentional slight. She'd proved her worth as a Warrior and gained Robb's respect as such, and none had named her Lady Dacey since. Jon returns her nod, and spots her Lady Mother Maege Mormont across the room; with a spear strapped across her back and her towering height he's reminded of the Spearwives he met at Mance Rayder's camp in his last life. It's not uncommon for a woman to fight in the North, but it's still rarer here than Beyond the Wall.

"For thirty years I've been making corpses out of men boy!" Greatjon Umber growls. "I'm the man you'll want leading the Vanguard."

"Galbert Glover will lead the Vanguard." Robb answers, his voice as hard as the stones of Winterfell.

"The bloody Wall will melt, before an Umber marches behind a Glover!" Greatjon postures, leaning forward. "I will lead the Van. Or I will take my men, and march them _home_."

The Great Hall quiets, every man of every House hearing the Greatjon's threat, Jon sees Catelyn's expression turn to stone, and Bran's to ice, he see Theon's thunder and Robb... his eyes darken to black, his anger cold and his gaze calculated as he locks the Greatjon with a stare that could melt steel.

"And you would be welcome to do so Lord Umber." Robb rumbles, pushing back from the table, and standing. "And when I am done with the Lannister's, I will march back North, root you out of your Keep, and hang you for an Oathbreaker."

Jon hears Grey Wind growl, as the Greatjon roars. "Oathbreaker is it!" The screech of wood against stone sounds over and over as every Lord in the North stands, the Greatjon's plate clattering as it hits the wall. Jon's hand moves to his sword, though he remains sitting, and uses his other to stop Ghost and Lady from rising to join Grey Wind and Nymeria at Robb's back. "I'll not sit here and swallow insults from a boy so green he pisses grass!" The Greatjon goes for his sword, and Jon rises, Theon an instant behind him, but Grey Wind is quicker, leaping onto the table and at Greatjon, taking two fingers as reparation for the slight.

"My Lord Father taught me it was death to bare steel against your Liege Lord." Robb speaks strongly as the Greatjon stands. "Doubtless," He continues, "The Greatjon only meant to cut my meat for me."

"Your meat!" The Greatjon growls, kicking his chair aside. Jon whistles lowly, calling Grey Wind back, and quieting Nymeria, still snarling at Robb's side. "Is bloody tough." The Greatjon laughs, and Robb joins, the entirety of the Great Hall joining. Jon offers Grey Wind a cut of steak as he pads back to Robb's side, the DireWolf's littermates' nosing him softly as he lays again at Robb's feet.

Bran smiles, leaning into his side. "And the first battle is won."

"Let us pray to the Gods, he wins the next." Jon replies, and tries to shake the dread marching South produces in the pit of his stomach, when he knows that deep in the Lands of Always Winter, the true enemy rises unimpeded.

* * *

 **AN:** The Banners have been called, and the War Council has begun.

Fun fact, this is the longest chapter yet! Thank you to everyone again who's favourited (all 404 of you), followed (all 518 of you) and reviewed (all 171 of you) I can't tell you how much I appreciate every one of you!


	15. XV - The Battle of the Whispering Wood

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XV –** _Jon_

* * *

Winterfell is quiet.

The feast is long since finished, the Lords and their heirs taking chambers in the Guest Keep, their men sleeping where they can find a place among the thousands of tents pitched outside the Great Gates... their last peace before the long march South.

The crypts are cold, the water from the hot springs pumped through the stones in the Great Keep warm the castle, but the stones down here are frigid. Jon's comforted by the cold, even as Catelyn pulls her cloak tighter around her thin frame, and Robb shivers. Jon knows Bran is close, hiding in the shadows, still far too young by Catelyn's marker to march alongside his eldest brother, but he'll not allow himself his Lady Mother's protection Jon is aware, not when he can help.

Jon's eyes fall first on Lyanna, and he lights the candle in her hand, the firelight casting shadows on her stone features. Silent, he turns from her and sees Robb duck his head, his eldest brother watching him closely as Jon pays his respects to his Lady Mother. Lady Catelyn however, has stopped before her Lord Father, Robb's Lord Grandfather.

Rickard Stark stands guard over his fallen children, Lyanna and Brandon on one side, and Jon knows, space for Benjen and Eddard on the other. He's carved in the way of all Lords of House Stark, with the leather armor of all Northern men, highborn or lowborn, and with the giant great sword Ice clasped between his hands. Jon watches as Lady Catelyn steps behind the large statue, her torch chasing away the shadows and lighting her path, as she pulls from Rickard's back, a scabbard as wide as a grown man's hand, and as tall as Bran is now in this life.

"Mother..." Robb breathes, accepting the sword when Lady Catelyn offers it.

Jon recognises the hilt in an instant. The pommel, with a carved Direwolf's head, the cross-guard curved, with two spikes below it, an adornment meant for nothing more than making the blackened blade look more spectacular. Below the cross-guard, the rain-guard is carved again with the sigil of House Stark, just above where the blade sits in its scabbard, as visible as the wolf's head pommel when strapped to the side of the Lord of Winterfell.

Robb unsheathes the spell-forged sword with the reverence it deserves, the blade even more beautiful than Jon remembers, the smoky appearance enhanced by the ripples of valerian steel.

"Father, he took Ice to Kings Landing." Robb shakes his head, even as he stares at the evidence of their Lord Father's falsehood. "I watched as he strapped it to his back, I saw-"

Lady Catelyn smiles and Jon sees the spark of cunning he'd attributed to Sansa's time in Kings Landing, instead of, he now realises, to her Lady Mother. "You saw what your Father wanted all of Winterfell to see." Catelyn says. "What he wanted all of the King's party to see."

"He took a forgery to Kings Landing?" Robb asks, disbelieving.

"Your Lord Father is a smart man, he knows better than to take the ancestral sword of House Stark to Kings Landing; when Rickard Stark rode for Kings Landing, with Brandon at his back, even he did not take Ice from the North."

"And yet you give the blade to me." Robb murmurs. "You know where I'm headed."

Lady Catelyn nods, and Jon knows her eldest son marching to War pains her greatly. "I do. You are your Father's son, honourable and brave, you will do well on the battlefield my son, but you haven't the mind for politics... when it comes to playing the game, holding Ice at your side will give your opinions weight, _and_ legitimacy as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North whilst your Lord Father still lives."

Robb, still gazing at the blade, nods, and Jon wonders, if this occurred in his last life, was it a forged blade that Ilyn Payne used to behead his Lord Father? Was it a forged blade that was melted to scrap and re-forged into two new blades, one of which Sansa's sworn protector wore at her hip? Jon suspects it was so, for how else could a spell-forged blade, a _Valyrian Steel_ blade, of which the secret of its creation was long since lost with the Doom of Valyria, be re- _forged?_

"It will be his again when we free him." Robb promises, and Jon wishes his eldest brother's promise will be fulfilled.

The march South begins when the night is at its darkest and the days pass quickly to Jon, a haze of riding and marching and war council meetings until he finds himself staring up at the ugly militant twin keeps with the heavily tolled stone bridge arching between them, with guarded eyes.

Uneasy, he can't look away.

It was here, at the narrowest part of the Trident, at the crossing of the Green Fork, held by House Frey for centuries, that the downfall of Robb's reign began in his last life. Lady Catelyn was Robb's negotiator then, securing a Queen for him, a husband for Arya and a wife for Bran... and Jon wishes she'd done no such thing.

Another raven falls, felled by Theon's arrow, and the scroll is retrieved, Robb reads it quickly, and Jon sees his scowl. "It's a birthday message to his Grandniece Walda."

"Or so Walder Frey would have you think." Theon says.

Jon rolls his eyes, even as Robb shakes his head. "Keep shooting them down," Robb orders, "I don't want word of our crossing to be known to the Lannister's until we are ready."

"Aye." Greatjon agrees, "Walder Frey is a greedy old bastard, if he sends word to the Lannister's we'll be cut off from the South until we build our own damn crossing." He nods to two riders, heading in their direction, hoisting the colours of House Frey. "Look."

"My Father rots in a dungeon, how long until they take his head?" Robb asks, "We need to cross the Trident and we need to do it now."

"Just march up to his gates and tell him you're crossing." Theon orders, "We've got five times his numbers, we can take the Twins if we have to."

Jon shakes his head. "Don't be a fool Theon, we need every man we have to fight Tywin Lannister's army, we can't afford to lose men here because we refuse to pay the tolls."

Greatjon nods. "The bas- your brother is right Robb, Tywin Lannister marches North as we speak and the Frey's have held the crossing for six hundred years and for six hundred years they've never failed to exact their toll."

Robb nods, his eyes never leaving the two approaching riders and Jon knows what he's going to do. "Have my horse saddled and ready."

"Enter the Twins alone and he'll sell you to the Lannister's as he likes." Greatjon scowls.

"Or throw you in a dungeon." Theon, ever the pessimist, speaks. "Or slit your throat"

"My Father would do whatever it took to secure our crossing. _Whatever_ it took. If I am to lead this army I can't have other men doing my bargaining for me." Robb says strongly. "My horse, saddle it." He orders, and two young men, no older than Sansa, Jon notes, hop to attention. He's not certain which House they belong to, as they're bedecked in the fur-lined leather amour of every solider in Robb's army, but they're young, far too young to be fighting someone else's war. "Jon's too." And the boys nod, scurrying away to saddle the two Destriers.

"With all due respect My Lord-" Galbart Glover begins, but Robb cuts him off.

"My _brother_ will ride with me into the Twins and we will secure a crossing." Robb states, as the two boys return with the horses and the two riders halt in their approach.

"My Lords." One of the men call. "You may accompany us to see Lord Frey."

Jon mounts the offered horse, thanking the boy who hands him the reins quietly, and rides next to Robb as they enter the Twins, and he finds his first impression of the outside of the identical keeps just true for the inside. He never would have thought Castle Black to be warm and welcoming, but compared to the cold, dirty, worn Keep he's found himself in now... he'd prefer the Wall.

Walder Frey is old. He's decrepit and cruel, and Jon wonders if he smiled when Catelyn's throat was slashed, or when Roose Bolton embedded his knife in Robb's heart. The old man's sons and daughters fill the room, Bastards and Trueborns alike sitting in the gallery and there's so many Jon wonders how the prick can remember all their names, though he supposes the eldest Frey simply doesn't.

"What do you want?" Walder asks, sneering down at them from is wooden throne. "Not too proud to come before me yourself I see."

"Lord Frey, thank you for seeing me." Robb inclines his head, just enough to be respectful, but not enough to show subservience.

"You brought mutts into my Keep boy," The old man growls, "And a Bastard too! Don't think I don't recognise you boy," Walder sneers, idly groping his child wife. "You're the spitting image of old Ned, not so honourable as to keep his dick in his britches whilst fighting Robert's war, but still far better than the rest of us Lords."

Jon raises his chin. Spitting image of Eddard Stark he may be, but his son he was not. Robb with his hand upon Grey Wind's head, holds the old Lord Frey's steely gaze, not intimidated in the slightest by the decrepit Lord and his army of Sons and Daughters.

"Lord Frey, I have come to bid you to open your gates, and allow my men crossing." Robb speaks strongly, and Jon's proud, his eldest brother's stance, the steel in his voice, he looks and sounds like a Lord, like a man who will grow into the King he'll be anointed as so soon... The King in the North.

"Your men..." The old man scoffs. "Your army you mean. Don't play games with me _boy,_ what's to say I don't just sell you to old Tywin Lannister, save myself the trouble."

Robb's genial eyes turn cold. "You do as you see fit Lord Frey, and know this _old man_ , I have twenty thousand Northern soldiers camped outside your walls, I outnumber your men, six to one and I'll slaughter the lot of you before I allow you to sell my Bannermen to Tywin Lannister."

The Hall erupts. Robb remains calm, his hand resting on Grey Wind's head as the still growing Direwolf growls menacingly as Walder's children stand, and call for their heads. Jon almost smiles, Ghost is silent, but Jon knows his wolf is ready to strike at any moment, he rests his hand on the sword at his hip almost casually, his movement not unnoticed by Walder he notes.

The old man scowls. "Quiet!"

"Father-"

"I said quiet Bastard!" Walder shouts. "All of you get out." No one moves. "Out!" His children scramble, but Robb and Jon remain. "You've got balls boy," Walder states. "But this is my Keep! You don't threaten me here boy, your twenty thousand _Bannermen_ will be twenty thousand corpses soon enough, whether I allow you to cross or not." Walder growls, "Your Father rots in the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep and Joffrey's King now, which makes all of you nothing but rebels."

Robb stares at him with a gaze so cold the Wall would seem warm. "Then it will be rebels you are sworn to, for Lord Hoster of House Tully, your Liege Lord, has sworn to aid House Stark."

"House Tully has always pissed on me and mine." Walder sneers. "If I had the sense the Gods gave a fish I'd turn you all over to the Lannister's sworn words or not."

"And yet I notice you have not." Jon speaks for the first time.

"Stark, Tully, Lannister, Baratheon, _Snow_ , give me one good reason why I should waste a single thought on any of you?"

"Because," Jon says, Robb's eyes upon him, "You are greedy. You want something, you want knighthoods for your sons, marriages for your daughters, you want House Frey to be yours and yours alone. You are old, your bones creak and your body is failing but you won't give up your seat because you are selfish, and you think your sons unworthy."

Walder regards him with a glare... and nods. "I'll give you four thousand men, perhaps a few of my ungrateful sons will get themselves killed and I won't have so many here, piling up."

Jon's not surprised by his coldness, and neither is Robb he sees as his eldest brother nods. "I am not naïve enough to believe your men come without _strings._ "

"You will take my son Olyvar as your _personal_ squire, and you will give him a knighthood."

Robb glares at the man. "I will give him a knighthood if he earns a knighthood."

Walder eyes him shrewdly. "You have siblings, I have too many daughters and only so many sons I can send to fight your war, I want matches, marriages between them."

Robb shakes his head. "No."

"You need to cross the Trident boy, and like your Bastard brother said, I need marriages for my sons and daughters."

"I will not budge on this Lord Frey." Robb speaks.

"Just like your Grandfather." Walder spits, "Hoster Tully thinks himself too good to marry his daughters to my sons, and now _you_ see fit to deny me."

"I see fit to deny you because my siblings are _children._ " Robb growls, "They are not fighting in this war and I will not see them become bargaining chips in it."

Jon thinks that's exactly what Sansa and Arya are. The Lannister's bargaining chips. He hopes Sansa has a plan for Arya for in their last life Arya was lost. Only Lady Brienne had glimpsed her, and even then that was years before he and Sansa were reunited at Castle Black.

Walder sneers. "How honourable, then it will be _you_ one of my daughter's will be married to, or you will not cross the Trident, not now, not ever."

Robb doesn't allow himself to grimace, but Jon sees his shoulders tense and his hand fist in Grey Wind's fur. "Understand this Lord Frey, and understand it well. Marrying your daughter gives me four thousand men and allows me to cross the Trident without razing your Keeps to the ground and decimating your House, but know this; should I be offered a bride who will give me ten thousand men, thirty thousand men, a hundred thousand men I will set aside your daughter in a _heartbeat_ and you Lord Frey and your men _will_ remain loyal to me and mine, or so help me Gods, what Tywin Lannister did to House Reyne will pale in comparison to what I do to you."

Later, after Walder has commanded the gates be open and Jon rides alongside Robb as they cross the Trident, he remembers the flash of terror in the old man's eyes, before it was hidden by false bravado as the Lord of the Twins ordered them from his keep, and smiles. No husband for Arya, no wife for Bran, and a Queen for Robb; an infinitely better deal in this life Jon decides, for Robb allowed himself an out, and Walder Frey, much to his obvious disgust, had no choice but to agree. They ride through the day and long into the night, two thousand willing men splitting off to divert Tywin Lannister's attention from Riverrun, two thousand men, Jon knows, who won't survive the battle.

Jon sees Robb's turmoil later, as they stand around the war table in Robb's tent and begin to organise their force to attack Jamie Lannister's force of thirty thousand men besieging Riverrun.

"The siege won't be lifted in one battle alone My Lord." Galbart Glover says as he leans over the map, the positions of the markers pertaining to Jamie Lannister's forces known to them thanks to the light-footed scouts.

"Aye," The Greatjon agrees, though Jon notes, he looks rather pained to do so, "The Battle in the hills below the Golden Tooth decimated the force of your Lord Grandfather, and your Uncle the idiot, got himself captured."

"Ser Marq Piper has been harrying the supply trains coming from Tywin Lannister," Jon adds, "We can't meet the Kingslayer's forces from just one side, we need multiple coordinated attacks."

Robb nods his agreement. "The Kingslayer isn't expecting the full Northern host, and that will be his downfall."

The Whispering Wood is different to the Wolfswood, Jon notes, as he sits tall on his Destrier, and waits for the signal from Maege Mormont. Even by the moonlight the canopy of leaves is thinner, allowing more light to fall on the forest floor, and Jon's glad their armour is more leather than steel, and lacking the embellishments the Southern host's seem to favour. Maege's horn sounds, and Jon knows the Northern raiders hoisting Tully colours have succeeded in luring Jamie Lannister's forces into the Whispering Woods.

Drawing his sword Jon rides aside Robb into the frey, their Direwolves at their heels, attacking the Kingslayer's small host from the west as Maege Mormont and Greatjon lead a force from the East, and Rickard Karstark comes from the North, directly into the front of the Kingslayer's calvary riding into their trap from the south. The Kingslayer's host is disorganised, unsuspecting of the attack until their heads rolled across the grass and their innards had been trampled into the dirt. Jon fells soldier after soldier at Robb's back, he doesn't see the attacking force as children now, his blood is pumping and he remembers _this_ is what he was good at, this is what he spent half his last life doing... fighting for his life.

Ghost and Lady tear through men like toys, their snow-white fur turned the colour of wine, their body count will be higher than his own, Jon knows, and Nymeria and Grey Wind's higher still as they savagely protect Robb's back, and rip into the Kingslayer's men like the wild beasts they were born. He thinks of Sansa then, and wonders if this is what she imagined when she fought for Lady and Nymeria to remain under his care.

He swipes his sword across the neck of another red-cloaked soldier with ease, he's fought wildlings and the dead, Lannister soldiers he finds, aren't challenging in the slightest. He's in the middle of the battle now, he can see Dacey Mormont at the top of the hill, felling man after man with every arrow she notches on her bow, sees Domeric Bolton, more honourable than his Lord Father and Bastard brother alike embed his sword to the hilt in a solider before kicking him away and moving onto the next. The Greatjon fights alongside his son; Smalljon every bit the warrior as his Father, and Jon thinks Robb couldn't have chosen a better friend in the heir to the Last Hearth.

"Enjoying yourself Jon?" Eddard Karstark calls, the boy, barely older than Jon himself, is joyful in the heat of battle, and his moment of distraction costs him his life as the Kingslayer thrusts his sword through the boys neck. Blood drips from Eddard's mouth and shocked, Jon idly remembers he was named for Eddard Stark.

Blood rushes to his ears, and Jon doesn't hear Rickard Karstark cry out though he sees the Lord's mouth move, Torrhen beside his father catching a red-cloak's sword on his own, before his Lord Father could meet his youngest son in death.

"Kingslayer!" Jon roars.

Jamie Lannister, horseless and on his feet, regards him with a smug smile. "Bastard! I see you decided against the Wall."

Jon doesn't deign him with a response, leaping from his Destrier to deliver a blow that sends the Kingslayer reeling, shocked at the force behind swing from an opponent he's clearly underestimated. The smug smile melts of the Kingslayer's face, and Jon knows he's now facing the man slayed a King without remorse. Jamie pushes back, the singing of steel on steel rings and Jon directs a swipe across his stomach, the elder swordsman dancing just out of reach.

Jon blocks a swipe to his neck, and returns blow after blow, often blocked and more often returned and Jon feels himself fatiguing quickly, this body isn't as strong as his last, and knows by the end of this war will bare new scars, different scars to his last. The battle rages around him, and he wonders when it will end, he's a brilliant swordsman he knows, but he's out classed by Jamie Lannister, and it's all he can do to duel the man to a standstill, and for the first time, Jon wishes he'd returned to this life in the body of his last.

The Kingslayer crumples, and Jon stops, bloody and breathing heavily, as Robb offers him a strained grimace from where he stands over the unconscious Lannister, holding Ice with two hands, the blade stained crimson and the pommel wet with Jamie Lannister's blood.

Jon laughs almost hysterically as the triumphant Northern Lords look at him with newfound respect, and knows they won't call him Bastard again.

"Put him in irons." Robb demands. The Greatjon hoists the unconscious Kingslayer to his feet and does as his Lord commands. "We attack the camps at dawn."

* * *

 **AN:** And so the War of the Five Kings begins.

This was my first attempt at writing a battle sequence, so go easy on me. Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed (I can't believe we're almost at 200 reviews! That's insane), followed and favourited!


	16. XVI - Heavy is the Head

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XVI –** _Sansa_

* * *

She tastes blood.

She wakes and she can taste it on her lips, _feel_ it drip down the back of her throat, hot and tangy, like she's sipped from a goblet filled with copper and rust, and followed it with wine. The taste lingers, long after she's begged for her Father's head to be spared the block, and she's standing on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, waiting for Eddard to appear with his gaolers. In her dreams she charged into battle at Jon's back, not as Sansa, but as Lady, and knows the first victory has been won.

The crowd surges, and Sansa sees her Father, hands chained behind his back, his gaolers handling him roughly as he limps heavily and blinks rapidly to adjust his eyes to the sunlight after days below the Red Keep in the Black Cells. She can't look away from him. He sees her, and smiles grimly, his eyes searching the dais, and then the crowd for Arya. Sansa wants to tell him she's safe, that Arya is far from Kings Landing, that she'll never again set foot in the Capital, and that she'll live, but she remains silent, a perfect emotionless mask upon her face as she stands aside Cersei, and the monster she bore.

She doesn't hear the crowd silence themselves as her Father is dragged onto the dais, nor the tolling of the bells as they echo throughout the city, for her heartbeat is too loud in her ears. It's a cruel sort of irony, that they've ended up here again she thinks, they've changed much… and still her Father is to lose his head.

"I am Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King." He swallows and looks to her and Sansa can't breathe. She wants to tell him to run, as though his leg wouldn't fail him after the first step, she wants to tell him she loves him and she'll save their family, but all she can do is smile, and nod. "I come before you to confess my treason, in the sight of Gods and men… I betrayed the faith of my King, and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son… and seize the Throne for myself."

The crowd roars, calling for his head, throwing everything from rotten fruits to a stone that catches her Father in the side of the head, sending him reeling. The Hound catches him, and Sansa's carefully curated mask slips, her anger bared for all of Kings Landing to see for no more than a second, but before she can move her arm is caught in an iron grip, and she turns.

"Best not to make a scene little wolf," The perfumed Master of Whispers says, "It would not do for you to join your Father on the block."

She turns her ire upon him, and almost cries when she sees the calculating gleam in his eyes as he studies her closely as she desperately tries to control her slipping mask.

"Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bare witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon, is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, by the grace of all the Gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

The crowd jeers, and Sansa feels… nothing. Varys' hand remains on her arm, the wind picks up and rips at her dress, the thin fabric ripples around her legs and her long hair lashes her cheeks, but she feels none of it, a curious sort of detachment from the situation numbing the ache in her heart and the guilt in her soul.

"As, as we sin," Master Pycelle begins, his old warbling voice and stooped appearance a façade Sansa knows, "so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of Gods and men. The Gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful." He turns to Joffrey, and idly, Sansa wonders what Pycelle would look like with Jon's dagger in his throat, and Joffrey, with it in his heart. "What is to be done with this traitor your Grace?"

Joffrey raises his hand as the crowd cheers, and Sansa remembers the riot in which the Septon was ripped apart, and wonders if she can arrange it that this time Joffrey meets that fate. "My Mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch, stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the Realm in permanent exile… and my Lady Sansa, has begged mercy for her Father."

Sansa knows her role, and looks to Joffrey with a painted smile and a stare she learnt from Margaery, a stare filled with love and admiration and so much feeling none would doubt it's authenticity; a pretty lie, but a lie nonetheless.

" _Anything before the word 'but' my sweet child is a fallacy, and you would do well to remember that."_

"But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am _your_ King treason shall never go unpunished." Her heart stops. "Ser Ilyn. Bring me his head."

Sansa feels like a child, Varys no longer holds her in place and she hears someone beg for the King to be stopped as she tries to run to her Father. She doesn't remember the years she lived after this moment in her last life, her mask is cracked, fissured and broken and she scrambles at her dress trying to find Jon's dagger, she'll cut him loose, tell him to run, she'll kill Joffrey and Cersei and Pycelle and Ser Ilyn, she'll kill them all she just needs her Father to _live._

Sansa feels strong arms wrap around her waist and she can't move, can't reach the dagger she's so desperately fighting to get to and she realises that the woman screaming… is her.

"My Son please." Cersei speaks. "This is madness."

Varys stands at her side and Sansa stops fighting, stops screaming, stops begging and pleading as Ser Ilyn draws Ice from it's scabbard and Sansa idly thinks there's no larger insult than your head being removed by your own blade. Her cheeks feel wet and she's crying as her Father catches her eye from where he kneels before the block, and she can't hear anything but her heart in her ears and every breath from her lungs.

Ice sings, and Sansa watches Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North… breathe his last.

"No." She sobs and her legs give out, and she falls heavily onto the dais, the Kingsguard holding her letting her go without care. She sees Ilyn Payne lift her Father's severed head as his body collapses like a marionette with its strings cut and presents it to Joffrey like a prize won at a Tourney. The crowd cheers and Joffrey smiles monstrously, the idiot doesn't even realise he's just handed Robb Kingship of the North on a silver platter.

She has no idea how long she stays there, weeping on her knees, the faces of the people around her melt away and the Sept of Baelor blurs, her mind refusing to process what her eyes see. Sansa doesn't notice anything but the pool of blood growing steadily larger as it leaks from her Father's neck, the colour of the wine Cersei so favours, the colour Lady's muzzle became as the battle fought in her dreams, was won for the North. She wants Jon, she wants him here, at her side, whispering in her ear and promising to protect her; she wonders if he'll make that promise again, now she's failed their House so spectacularly.

Sansa stares at her Father's body and thinks she should have done more. No matter her Lord Father saw her as a child, no matter she is a child here in this body, she should have warned him of Littlefinger's unwavering loyalty only to himself, of his desperate need to see himself upon the Iron Throne no matter the bodies he has to pile at his feet to do so. She should have warned him of the Lannister's, of Cersei and her madness, of the lengths Tywin's only daughter will go to to keep the secret of Joffrey's conception, and her grip upon the Seven Kingdoms. She should have changed her Father's path, she should have encouraged him to leave as quickly as Renly Baratheon escaped Kings Landing, she should have _fixed_ this.

This life hadn't seemed real… until now.

Sansa is led back to the Red Keep, into a room in the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast, the very room she was imprisoned in in her last life until Tyrion moved her to a room beside his own, she notes absently. She couldn't say who brought her here, the faces of those around her still fading from her mind before she can recognise a single feature, but the room slowly fills around her with the possessions from her chamber in the Tower of the Hand, though she realises quickly, that as in her last life, all she owned that bared the Stark standard was removed.

"Hello little dove."

Sansa's world comes back into focus sharply and automatically, she curtsies. "Your Grace." She murmurs.

Cersei stands in her bedchamber like it's her own, her red dress embroidered with golden thread and her yellow hair free from the complicated updo she wore standing on the steps of the Sept of Baelor.

"I am terribly sorry for what you had to witness today my child," Cersei starts, and Sansa remembers she believed the Queen's words in her last lifetime, at least, in the beginning. "But you understand why our King had to act as he did?"

Sansa almost channels Arya's defiance, she wants to, desperately, instead she lowers her gaze and refuses to meet the Cersei's eyes, demure and weak, the perfect mask. "I understand your Grace, my Lord Father was a traitor to the Crown, he deserved the fate he received."

Cersei moves, and Sansa is forced to look up, her chin caught in Cersei's iron grip. "He did indeed…" She whispers, and Sansa longs to look away. "Your Father was an enemy of the crown, and you are of his seed, tell me why I and the Small Council shouldn't cast you aside to meet the same fate as your Father?"

Sansa doesn't fear Cersei's threats, though she shows differently in her eyes. She is Cersei's only remaining bargaining chip, Arya is safe, far from Kings Landing in the hands of Loras Tyrell, and Cersei's precious Golden Lion had relieved the Key to Northern neutrality of his head. Sansa knows her Lady Mother holds Tyrion, and imagines Bran will find use for the disillusioned Lannister in fortifying the North for the coming winter. "Please, Your Grace," she begs, her voice wavers and her body shakes, "my betrothal is the only thing I've ever wanted, please, _Joffrey_ is the only thing I've ever wanted."

"Then you are a fool." Cersei spits, and releases her chin. "You will remain here, in our care, until such time as the Small Council decides what is to be done with you."

Sansa nods. "Thank you Your Grace."

Cersei leaves, and Sansa is once again alone. She spends days sequestered in her chambers before she is ordered into the Throne Room. A handmaiden she knows reported to Cersei in her last life attends to her, hanging a pale pink dress on the screen behind which she changes. Sansa smiles at the girl and thanks her when she leaves, despairing when she realises her Lady Mother hasn't released Tyrion in this life and likely won't, which means she will not have a protector in Kings Landing, nor a loyal handmaiden in Shae. The dress fits loosely, it's not the pale Tully blue or the Stark grey summer dresses she asked her Father to commission upon their arrival to Kings Landing, and Sansa suspects those dresses burned, along with all her affects baring the Stark sigil. She's not been allowed to wear black, and she hasn't asked, though she ties a thin black cord around her ankle, and tightens the straps holding Jon's dagger to her thigh.

The Great Hall is crowded, far more so than the day Ser Barristan was dismissed from his post as Head of the Kingsguard, and she begged upon her knees for mercy. She stands in the Gallery, in full view of the Iron Throne, and feels Joffrey's eyes upon her, even as he listens to the musician on the floor sing.

" _You're nowhere near as murderous… as the Lion in my bed_." Sansa can't deny the truth of the singer's song, and she remembers the fate of the man; his tongue removed in the same way as Ser Ilyn Payne. " _King Robert lost his battle and… he failed his final test… the Lion ripped his balls of and… the boar did all the rest_."

The crowd murmurs as the music stops, and Sansa looks to Joffrey as he claps mockingly, the Southern Lords and Ladies hurrying to clap along with him. Sansa claps lightly and slowly, and Joffrey's smile widens.

"Very amusing." Joffrey smiles viciously. "Were you amused My Lady?" He asks, and Sansa almost starts at the address.

She nods. "Yes, Your Grace, I thought it rather clever."

He eyes her for a moment longer, before returning his vicious gaze upon the cowering man. "My Lady thinks your song clever and isn't it just?" He drawls, asking the room at large. "Thank you for your rendition. I imagine it was even better received in that Tavern."

"I'm so sorry Your Grace. I'll never sing it again, I swear!"

"Tell me which do you favour: your fingers or your tongue?"

"Your Grace?" The man asks.

"Fingers or your tongue? If you got to keep one, which would it be?"

The man can't answer, but she already knows his choice, he'll keep his hands and play his instrument, though his voice will no longer accompany the notes the strings produce. She wonders if she could save this man with her words, she wonders if she should; this man keeps his neck, he loses his tongue but he remains among the living, and is ultimately inconsequential in the game of thrones. She hadn't saved her Lord Father, but she had long since accepted his death in her last life, and in this one, he hadn't seemed _real_ until his blood pooled beneath his body, and his head was raised above the crowd.

Joffrey stands before her and she smiles, realising her thoughts had taken her far from the Great Hall and the Iron Throne, and she's missed Ser Ilyn enacting his twisted version of revenge.

"You look quite nice." He says and she curtsies, one hand playing with the golden pendant at her neck.

"Thank you my love- I apologize. Your Grace."

He smiles winningly, as though he hasn't just ordered a man's tongue be removed in the middle of the court. "You may call me your love if you like." He smirks.

Sansa thinks of Jon, and a blush colours her cheeks. She notices the gleam in Joffrey's eyes and knows he believes her wrapped around his fingers but she's had a lifetime to learn how to play him like a fiddle, she's watched a master manipulator wrap him around her finger, and though Margaery was Joffrey's Queen only a short while, The Queen of Thorn's prodigy retained a modicum of control over the monster. "Thank you… my love."

"Come with me, I want to show you something."

Sansa's heart stutters, and her soft smile becomes fixed and the blush fades from her cheeks. She does not wish to see what he wants to show her. Her feet refuse to follow her command, and as Joffrey walks away, expecting her to be at his heels, the Hound stops at her side, and leans toward her.

"Do as you're bid little wolf." She looks up at him and barely refrains from narrowing her eyes. _Different_ she thinks, little wolf, he'd called her, instead of child as in her last life, and she realises it's the second time she's heard that phrase in as many days. She turns, and trails after Joffrey, her eyes flitting the room for sight of the Spider. Sansa is annoyed when the man is nowhere to be found.

Joffrey speaks as they walk, of her upcoming moons-blood and the son he'll put in her once they're married in the Sept, and Sansa remembers it was upon Traitor's Walk that she intended to push Joffrey to his death… and would have succeeded had the Hound not gripped her arm, and dabbed at the blood at her lip. It's the scent of rot that hits her first, then the buzzing of fly upon fly feasting on the remains of her Household.

Her steady steps waver, and she stumbles, her pallor whitening as she stares at each head speared upon a spike; she counts them silently, seventy-two people whom watched her grow, who knew her name and all her family, seventy-two people loyal to House Stark, seventy-two people she could have saved… but didn't. She recognises every one of them; Jory and Septa Mordane, Hallis Mollen and Cayn, Vayon Pool and his daughter Jeyne… and her Lord Father.

"This one's your Father." Joffrey smirks, "This one right _here._ Look at it and see what happens to traitors."

Sansa's stare doesn't waver, she gazes up at her Lord Father's head and remembers the light in his eyes when he looked at her, and the love she always felt in his presence. She's not held by Ser Meryn as in her last life, she's not pushed into position and her head forced up; she's not a scared child alone in the world now, she sees her brothers every night in her dreams, she fights beside Jon as Lady and she'll not be broken here.

"You promised to be merciful Your Grace," She says lightly, and sees Joffrey's face redden. "I thank you for giving my Lord Father a clean death."

Joffrey steps off the thin bridge of Traitor's Walk, and touches her cheek lightly, the same way he had when presenting her with the necklace that matched his Mother's. "Mother says I'm still to marry you. I am glad you do not blame me for your Lord Father's actions.

Sansa raises her eyes to meet his. "Never my love." She lies softly.

Joffrey offers his arm, and Sansa takes it. "Come, I have much of the Red Keep to show you, perhaps you'd like to see where Ser Gregor disposed of Elia Martell? I've been told it was quite… _bloody."_

Sansa smiles, the steel in her eyes barely noticeable. Joffrey hadn't made his threat in this life, hadn't made his promise of delivering Robb's head to her on a silver platter, and she hadn't responded in such a way she earned a beating from Ser Meryn.

" _Maybe he will give me yours."_

She feels Jon's dagger at her thigh, and thinks, perhaps in this life, she'll remove Joffrey's head from his shoulders herself. Sansa smiles at the pretty picture her mind produces, and returns her attention to the Golden monster at her side.

* * *

 **AN:** And Ned joins the Old Gods in death. To all of you who wanted me to save him, I apologise, but Eddard Stark was always meant to die in this story.


	17. XVII - We Will Endure

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XVII –** _Bran_

* * *

He's far from Westeros.

The land is barren, desolate, it's not luscious and green like the place he found himself wandering before, there's no meat cooking over open fires, no children running between tents, no men upon horses guarding the camp. It's almost abandoned, tents are torn and falling down, Bran walks between them and sees few women, fewer men and less horses, and wonders what's occurred to the mighty Khalassar he witnessed in his last flight across the Narrow Sea.

Bran knows where the thread he's following will lead; to the largest tent among the gathered, to the woman residing inside. The man standing guard before the doorway doesn't see him, but Bran recognises the features, first a bear then an outlaw then a little bird; his loyalties shift like waves move the sand upon the island of which he was born. The tent, though ripped and failing, is warm, and Bran sees her, as beautiful as he remembers, though she's sad, broken and filled with heartache as she kneels at her lover's side.

" _Do you remember our first ride my sun and stars?"_ She asks, and Bran thinks the Dothraki dialect has never sounded so soft, as when it is spoken from her lips.

" _If you are in there, if you haven't gone away… show me. You're a fighter."_ Daenerys whispers, _"You've always been a fighter… I need you to fight now."_

Bran watches Drogo, the mighty Khal has been brought to his knees by his Khaleesi's trust in a _witch_ , and a festered wound. Drogo's eyes are wide and unseeing, his mind locked away, far from his body's reach… The great Khal has long since met his Gods, and is waiting for his body to follow.

" _I know you're very far away, but come back to me… my sun and stars."_ She begs softly.

Bran looks at her and sees Jon. Not just in her features, so similar to his brother-cousin but in what Jon could have been, had Eddard not found Lyanna in the Tower of Joy, and Jon were raised under the guiding hand of the Kingsguard. The Sword of the Morning fought for the unborn son of his Prince until his last breath, and Bran knows had history been different, Ser Arthur Dayne would have protected the child of his greatest friend, until the end of his days. It could have been Jon, alone in the world, far across the Narrow Sea, instead of protected and love and taught at Winterfell.

" _A Targaryen… alone in the world… is a terrible thing."_

"I'm sorry," He says, his voice softer than a whisper on the wind. "For what you feel now, and what will come."

Daenerys turns quickly, Drogo's hand dropped upon his chest, and Bran thinks she resembles her children in that moment with the speed of which she spins to face him, and Bran swears… she _sees_ him.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?" She demands, and Bran blinks.

He regards her curiously, head tilted to the side much in the same way as his Direwolf. He remembers his wanderings through Winterfell before his body called him home, how he stood at the edge of Jon's vision, and wondered if his brother would see him.

"Interesting." Bran murmurs, watching her closely as she takes in his wings, and steps closer. "You see me." He states.

Daenerys steps back. "What are you?" She questions.

"Human." Bran supplies. "Mostly." He concedes. "I'm the Three-Eyed Raven."

"How did you get past my guard?" Daenerys demands.

"The First Man can't see me." Bran answers, "Not in this form. I know of only one other who can and he, like you, is of the blood of Old Valeria."

Bran evaluates her. She's not yet the Queen she would become, she was Drogo's Khaleesi, and a good, kind Khaleesi he knows, though she didn't truly understand all of the Dothraki culture, nor abide by the same morals. She didn't truly start upon the path that led her to Astapor and Yunkai and Meereen until she stepped into Drogo's funeral pyre with the three petrified Dragon eggs she'd been gifted at her wedding. She's just a girl compared to the woman who burned the Khal's who tried to chain her alive, who freed slaves and dealt justice upon the slavers, who united the Sand Snakes of House Martell in Dorne and the Queen of Thornes of House Tyrell and brought her army of Unsullied and a Dothraki hoard across the Narrow Sea.

"You are from Westeros." Bran raises an eyebrow. "Jorah, you called him a First Man. Not only are you Westerosi, but you are a Northman."

Bran smiles. "I am. You are far more learned than your brother believed."

"Viserys was a fool, and far more empty headed than I." Daenerys replies. "He only wished to learn of Dragons, and not the people he was to rule."

"And what have you learnt of Dragons, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen?"

She catches his gaze and Bran thinks he's never felt so entranced by the colours of someone's eyes. "Dragons are dead."

Daenerys turns her back, and lays herself across Drogo's chest, he hears her sobs and sees crystalline tears wet her cheeks and knows, this is Drogo's end… and Daenerys beginning. " _When the sun rises in the east, and sets in the west, when the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves… then you will return to me my sun and stars."_ She kisses him softly, and Bran feels like an intruder in this place, he doesn't know why this moment is his to see… until Daenerys presses a pillow to Drogo's face, and gives her love a merciful death. She doesn't let him go, long after Drogo has long since breathed his last she stays at his side, holding him tight and listening for a heartbeat that will never again sound.

"Yet you live." He murmurs, about to elaborate further when he feels it. His wings expand, wider than the tent of which they should be constrained within, to keep him steady as he feels the Gods themselves respond in agony as Eddard Stark joins their midst. Bran feels it, deep in his chest, the moment his Lord Father's head is separated from his shoulders, by the Mikken forged blade he knows the Capital believes Ice. He fades, as Daenerys looks to him, and wakes in his own body in the Godswood, beside the reflecting pool he believed a melted Ice Dragon as a child.

Bran can feel it in the air, even in this body, wingless and small again, a child in a world still too big for him by his Lady Mother's marker. He pulls, and sees a Raven appear overhead, and watches for a moment as it swoops through the open window of the Maester's Turret. He runs through the Castle, past the Guest House and through the Armoury, using the bridge between it and the Great Keep as a shortcut to the Great Hall, with Summer close at his heels. His Lady Mother holds court, seated in the Lord's Chair in the centre of the high table and Bran knows had Eddard sat upon the Iron Throne when he had the opportunity, she would have made a wonderful Queen.

"How goes the fortification of White Harbour Ser Marlon?" Catelyn asks strongly.

Ser Marlon, hand on sword steps forward, and offers his liege Lady a bow. "Well My Lady," He answers, "However it is a slow process with many of our Son's fighting in the South."

Catelyn regards him coolly, "Then train your Daughters. It is not just the responsibility of our Son's to maintain the North, but also our Daughters."

Ser Marlon raises a bushy brow. "You would have your Daughters taught skills such as stonemasonry and farming? You would teach your Daughters to wield a blade?"

"No." Catelyn shakes her head. "I'd have Ser Rodrik to teach them, he's far more skilled with a blade than I."

This earns her a laugh from the assembled Lords, and Bran is loath to interrupt the lightness which prevails over the gathering, but he doesn't have to, for Maester Luwin, grim faced and melancholy, enters, scroll in hand.

"Lady Stark." He says softly. "I have news… from Kings Landing."

She takes the scroll, and Bran thinks he can pinpoint the very moment in which his Mother's faith falters. Catelyn is strong, incredibly so, but even the strongest of women will break when their heart is crushed. "S-Ser Marlon, please oversee the construction of t-thirty more trade ships, and we must," She swallows and Bran steps forward from the same doorway from which he watched Robb, as she lets out a shaky breath, "We must begin cultivating wheat and barley, every Keep and Holdfast in the North must build up their reserves-"

"Mother." Bran whispers as he reaches her.

"Every Daughter who wishes to learn a trade shall, and once the trade ships are constructed they will be loaded with- with wool, hide and t-timber to trade in the Pentos and the Free Cities."

"Mother." Bran repeats softly and takes her hands. "Stop."

Catelyn looks to him, her hands shake in his grip, and her breaths become shallow pants. "I, I must-"

"Maester Luwin, clear the room." Bran orders, and the elderly Maester does so without question, the sworn men filling the room leaving without argument. Catelyn sinks into the Lord's chair the moment the Great Hall clears, her legs failing her and her knees weak.

"My son." She sobs, gripping his hands tightly, "My sweet Summer child."

Bran reaches forward, and she gathers his small body in her arms. "He's safe now." He says simply, and holds her as she tucks his head beneath her chin and sobs softly into his hair. In his last life his Lady Mother was long gone from Winterfell by the time Maester Luwin received word from the capital of Eddard's beheading, he remembers the dream he shared with Rickon then, and how he'd begged Osha to take him to the Crypts to search for their Father.

He doesn't know how long he remains in his Mother's arms, but he feels her tears dry and her shoulders still, and knows she has no more salted tears to cry today.

"Joffrey will pay for this Mother." Bran whispers, eyes closed. He doesn't offer her platitudes, nor remind her of the family Eddard has joined among the Old Gods in death, instead he makes a promise, and prays it holds true. "Robb and Jon will make certain of his fate."

Catelyn runs her fingers through his locks, and Bran feels her nod. "I have no doubt in your eldest brothers sweet boy, but Sansa and Arya are alone in Kings Landing now and it is your sisters I fear for."

Bran knows only Sansa currently resides under the Lannister's thumb and though she does so willingly, he is aware Sansa will remain in danger for as long as she plays the game of thrones in Kings Landing.

"Sansa is strong." He says. "As is Arya."

He thinks of his sister, a mere year older than he was in this body, but ever so young when he factors in the years of his last life. Arya's journey in their last life, of all their journeys, was the hardest see. He was blinded to Arya's fate, he saw his Lady Mother's and Lord Father's, he'd seen Robb felled by his bannermen and Jon by his brothers, he saw Sansa raped and Rickon executed… but Arya… he didn't see her, until she was gone. For all his family went through, for the trials and the tribulations, they remained _true..._ he could recognise the girl in Sansa and the boy in Jon, but everything that was the Arya he knew was stripped away, piece by piece until only revenge and anger and warped justice remained.

Every moment of his family's lives he witnessed, except hers, until Jamie Lannister threw him from the highest window of the Broken Tower in this life, and he awoke as the Three-Eyed Raven once more. He watched as her dancing Master urged her to escape, he stood beside her as she watched from the statue of Baelor as their Lord Father was beheaded and rode beside her on the wagon as Yoren aided her escape. He watched as she befriended Robert Baratheon's bastard, served Tywin Lannister wine and chanted the names of all who wronged House Stark, her list longer than the years she lived. He saw her encounter the Brotherhood Without Banners and the last glimpse of the girl who secretly wished for a happy ending.

" _I can be your family."_

He travelled with her as she was taken first to the Twins, too late for safety, and then to the Eerie, always too late, and watches her path diverge as he saw her sail to Braavos, to the House of Black and White and watches as her hands become stained red, body after body piling in her wake.

Bran doesn't want that for Arya in this life.

"Winter is coming Mother." Bran whispers, "And House Stark will always endure."

Catelyn presses a kiss to his forehead and Bran wishes he could give her more. He wants to tell her of his gift, to tell her Father's death was quick and that the war to come would be different to the last… but his lips do not move and he can't form the words. He'll not burden her with a half truth, nor try to give her a certainty he cannot guarantee. Bran hugs his Mother tightly and slips from her arms, he's done all he can for her; she'll not get a true goodbye with her Husband, nor the closure of casting Edwards bones in stone, not for months, and he can't bare to remain at her side as she mourns the Husband he could not save.

He feels her eyes follow him as he goes, following the same path that brought him here, through the Armoury, retrieving the spear Mikken forged at Osha's request, and cuts through the Guards Hall, toward the tiltyard and pauses, at the chamber closest to the Guest Keep. There is a guard posted at the door, and he straightens imperceptibly as Bran eyes the heavy door speculatively.

"Open the door." Bran orders, and the Guard, Willard, shakes his head.

"I apologise little Lord, but on Lady Stark's orders I must not."

Bran fixes the young guard with a glare. "Willard, open the door."

Willard, nervous, reaches for his keys. "I could be dismissed for this."

"I'll dismiss you myself if you do not open the door." Bran snaps, at the end of his patience. "If my Lady Mother has issue with you following my order, she can take it up with me later, now," Bran gestures to the door and the Guard hastens to unlock it. "Thank you Willard, remain at your post."

Bran enters; the room is spartan, a simple bed, a large window, there's a desk against the wall and a candelabra dripping with wax of many a burnt out candle. Books pile around the room, some in the corner, many on the desk and a few nestled at the end of the bed.

"Brandon Stark, you are the last person I expected to receive a visit from." Tyrion pipes up from where he lounges on the bed with his hands behind his head. "To what do I owe this honour?"

Bran leans against the wall, spear in hand. He twirls the weapon absently, a trait he's picked up from Osha. "Your bastard nephew beheaded my Lord Father."

Tyrion closes his eyes, and Bran thinks he seems truly regretful. "Your Lord Father was a good man."

"He was." Bran agrees. "I cannot say the same for your nephew, or his Father. Tell me Lord Tyrion, what would cause the _honourable_ Ser Jamie Lannister to throw a boy of ten from a the highest window of a tower?"

"King Robert was-"

"Not Joffrey's Father." Bran cuts the man off. "You are a smart man Lord Tyrion, as am I. Do not insult my intelligence. Tell me you never suspected for a moment the true relationship between your siblings."

Tyrion glares, and Bran smirks. "Jamie would never-"

"' _The things I do for love',"_ Bran quotes the words he heard before he was pushed. "In another life, the fall from the Broken Tower crippled me. In another life, you became Hand of the King in the place of your Lord Father after my Lady Mother released you at the Eerie. In another life you were married to my sister after Joffrey set her aside on the order of your Lord Father to ensure the key to the North remained in the hands of House Lannister. This is not that life. Your brother was once an honourable man, he saved hundreds of thousands of lives the day he plunged his sword into the Mad King's back; where was that man, when he pushed a child to his death? Where was that man when his _son_ ordered Ser Ilyn to take my Father's head?"

"I-"

"Tell me my Lord, have you ever been in love?" Bran asks.

"Yes." Tyrion breathes.

"And what would you have done for her?"

"Anything she asked."

Bran nods. "If Tysha asked you to kill a child to protect your secrets, would you have done so?"

"Where did you learn that name?" Tyrion demands angrily.

"Answer the question My Lord." Bran orders.

The half-man shakes his head. "Despite what you may have heard of me young Lord I am no abomination, I'd no more kill a child than a man."

Bran wonders how true those words would hold, should Tyrion be faced with the same circumstances of his last life. He imagines Tyrion would still have his Lord Father's blood on his hands, and not feel the slightest ounce of guilt, and Bran couldn't blame him.

"Tell me Lord Tyrion, what do you know of the Targaryen Madness?" Bran asks, and he sees the confusion on the half-man's face.

"King Jaehaerys once said that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin and every time a new Targaryen is born, the Gods toss a coin in the air, and the world holds its breath to see how it will land." Tyrion quotes, ever the scholar.

Bran grins; he knows his brother holds none of this taint, nor does the Khaleesi across the sea, so far as he's seen. "Do you know why the Targaryen Dynasty produced many great Kings and so many more mad kings?"

Tyrion nods, "The Targaryen's favoured marrying siblings, so to keep the bloodline pure and the dynasty strong."

"So with this knowledge Lord Tyrion, what would you expect the offspring of two Lannister's, twins no less, to be? Mad… or great?"

Tyrion hangs his head, the truth of his siblings actions finally sinking in. "Mad." He breathes.

Bran nods. "Indeed."

* * *

 **AN:** Bran's wandering again, Catelyn receives news of Ned's beheading. I hope I did her reaction justice, as we never truly witnessed her devastation in the show.

Thanks again to everyone who's followed, favourited and reviewed, I love hearing from all of you- it honestly never fails to astound me the overwhelmingly positive reaction you've all had to this story, thank you all so much!


	18. XVIII - The King in the North

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XVIII –** _Jon_

* * *

The raven has come.

Jon sits aside Robb, his brother watching his arguing Northern Lords stoically and Jon finds the juxtaposition of Robb's attitude almost frightening, for only hours ago, Robb raged and cried and _broke_ and Jon had cradled him to his chest, just as he'd cradled Sansa in the courtyard of Castle Black. The news the raven delivered was dreaded but ultimately unsurprising and Jon's heart ached for Robb as he hacked at the base of an ancient Oak far from the edges of the vast camp, the mighty tree proving no match for the ever sharp Valerian Steel blade.

He could see it in Robb's eyes as his brother wielded Ice desperately against the tree turned imaginary foe, the devastation wrought in the confirmation they'd come too late, and Eddard had forcibly joined Lyanna and Brandon in the realm of the Old Gods. Robb had fallen; his legs no longer holding his weight and his arms waned of the strength needed to swing the indomitable sword, and Jon had held his brother, for days or hours he did not know, as Robb cried horrible gut-wrenching sobs into his neck. And when Robb's tears dried, Jon listened as his brother swore vengeance on the cruel boy-king.

" _I'll kill them all… every last one."_

Jon hadn't argued, and now, as he looks over the assembled Northern Lords and men, he thinks they'll agree. His eyes fall on Rickard Stark; the Lord of Karhold has already returned his second born Son's bones to the North to be laid to rest with their ancestors, and Jon knows the tall Lord will not be the last to lose a Son or a Father or a Lord as the War continues to rage. He remembers travelling between each Keep in the North, with Sansa at his side, begging for men to aide in reclaiming Winterfell, and remembers how decimated the families of those Keeps were, post the long march South, the massacre at the Twins and the horrid years of the Bolton rule.

"The proper course is clear: pledge fealty to King Renly and move south to join forces with his." Jonos Bracken, the Lord of Stone Hedge states. Jon recognises the elder man as a River Lord, one of the many men pledged first to Lord Tully, and now, to his Grandson's cause.

Robb listens, and shakes his head. "Renly is not the King."

"You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, My Lord?" The old Lord asks scandalised. "He put your Lord Father to death!"

"I am well aware My Lord." Robb growls, and Jon is pleased to see the slight recoil of Jonos; the battles fought and won at the swords of he and Robb had endeared even the most stubborn of Lords who refused to believe two boys _so green they piss grass_ , could lead an army. Their respect was hard earned, but earned nonetheless. "However, that does not make Renly King! He's Robert's youngest brother. If Bran cannot be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can't be King before Stannis."

Jonos Bracken raises a bushy brow. "Do you mean to declare us for Stannis?"

Jon sees Galbart Glover nod. "Renly is not right! If we put ourselves behind Stannis-"

"My Lords." Greatjon Umber steps forward, and Jon straightens his back. The assembled Lords continue to debate, but Jon can't hear them through the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, and little Lyanna Mormont's voice echoing through the years.

" _But House Mormont remembers. The North Remembers! We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark… I don't care if he's a Bastard, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He's my King. From this day, until his last day."_

He knows what this moment will become, the ripples that were created from this single moment, the crowning that was reiterated long after Robb joined Eddard and he and Sansa were reunited at Castle Black. The crowning that occurred just days after they'd won Winterfell, the crown he hadn't wanted, the crown he hadn't believed he deserved… and the magic wrought _that returned him here._ "My Lords!" Greatjon yells, "Here is what I say to these two Kings." The Lord of the Last Hearth spits, and the assembled Lords and men rumble with cheers and laughter. "Renly Baratheon means nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall or the Wolfswood?" Jon hears the quiet rumbles of agreement, sees the hesitant nods and the shuffling of feet as men move closer to hear the Greatjon's words. "Even their Gods are wrong!" The rumbles of agreement come louder, and Jon sees the quiet comprehension burn on the older Lord's faces, the Lords who listened to the words their Maester's taught, the history of the North and the tradition they suspect the Greatjon will resurrect. "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the Dragons we bowed to… _and now the Dragons are dead!"_

Jon feels Robb move, and clamps a hand upon his brother's arm. He feels Robb look to him but Jon refuses to take his eyes off the Greatjon. He knows Robb wants to object, _'the Dragons aren't dead'_ his brother would shout, and Jon will not allow it. "Let this happen." Jon hisses, and Robb stills.

"There!" The Greatjon shouts, unsheathing his Greatsword, and points it at Robb. "Sits the only King, I mean to bend my knee to." He kneels behind his sword, and Jon realises how infinitely similar his own crowning as King in the North was to Robb's own. Smalljon joins his Lord Father, and kneels at his side. "The King in the North!"

Jon allows himself to look to Robb then, and sees the war raging behind his brother's eyes. He nods, subtlely, minutely, and Robb rises.

"Aye." Rickard Karstark shouts, his heir Harrion at his side, and his third born Torrhen at his back. "I'll have peace on those terms, they can keep their Red Castle, and their Iron Chair too!" He kneels aside the Greatjon, sword steepled and bows his head.

"Am I your brother, now and always?" Theon asks, drawing his sword.

"Now and always." Robb confirms, and Jon sees Theon's eyes flick to him for the barest of moments, and Jon thinks, perhaps the words belong to him as much as Robb. He nods, and Theon offers him the smallest of smiles.

Theon bows to Robb, and assumes the same stance of the kneeling Lords and their sons. "My sword is yours brother, in victory and defeat, from this day, until my last day."

Jon watches Maege Mormont kneel behind her sword, and Dacey behind her bow, he sees Robett Golver kneel aside his brother and Domeric Bolton kneel behind his sword readily, his Lord Father following suit slowly, and Jon knows the worm is already thinking of ways to turn Robb's kingship in his favour. He didn't see this war in his last life, too busy fighting his own at the Wall, and knows that for all the men killed in Battle, many more walked away, prisoners, captives, useless gaoled, but needed at the Wall. He many not be a Brother of the Night's Watch in this life, but he'll see the Wall protected, in every life he lives.

Jon rises last, he feels the eyes of the Northern Lords and Riverland Lords alike follow him, as he stands before Robb as an equal. Robb reaches forward, and clasps his right forearm. Jon grips the offered arm tightly in his right, and meets Robb's furious glare with his own.

"My King." Jon says, and Robb's hand tightens around his gauntlet, the war continuing to rage behind his brother's eyes.

"I will not allow this." Robb states, his voice dangerous in its tenor.

Jon, defiant in the face of his brother's anger, releases Robb's arm. He bows lowly, respectfully, and steps back, falling into line beside Theon, and draws his sword. He watches his brother's stoic mask return to his face, but Jon can see the cracks, no matter how well Robb hides them from his Lords. Jon kneels.

"The King in the North!" The Greatjon shouts, his cry taken up throughout the camp, as every man, highborn and lowborn, Lord and Heir, farmer and stone-smith swears fealty to Robb.

"You have no choice." Jon says, his eyes still locked with Robb's, his voice low.

"The King in the North, The King in the North, The King in the North!"

Jon slips away.

The furore doesn't die, for the first time in centuries the North is independent again, and they've taken the Riverlands too. Robb's eyes follow him as he leaves, but his brother cannot follow, swamped with the congratulations of the Lords who crowned him, and Jon is glad. He knows Robb will confront him at the first opportunity he gains… Robb never wished for a crown, but then… neither did he. He wanders, through the erected tents, past the racks of spears and the pile of shields, toward the edge of camp, to the wooden gaol built at the base of a rocky outcrop. He feels a wet nose nudge against his palm, and realises somewhere along the way, he's been joined by Ghost and Lady, the still growing white Direwolves flanking him on either side.

Jon eyes the wooden prison warily; it's well built and well protected, but he wonders how long it'll hold the mighty Kingslayer at its mercy, for all the stories he's heard of the man, he thinks should Jamie Lannister feel the need, he'll escape at the first chance he finds. He nods to the guards, and is almost startled when they address him.

"My Lord." They call and Jon raises an eyebrow.

"I'm not a Lord."

The guards seem confused, but the Kingslayer laughs. "No need for deference boys, he's simply a highborn _Bastard_." The guards glare at their prisoner, who speaks again. "The Bastard of Winterfell, come to keep me company have you? Can't say you're my type boy."

" _Let me give you some advice Bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you."_

Jon almost laughs. Mirth dances in his eyes, even as Ghost growls and Lady bares her teeth, and he eyes the man curled in the corner of his cell critically. It's been years by his marker since he watched the golden-haired firstborn son of Tywin ride into Winterfell on the back of a great destrier, months by the Kingslayer's, and only weeks since they met on the battlefield. Stripped of his armour, Jon can barely recognise the broken visage in front of him; caked in dried blood and mud and sweat, he still manages to retain the haughty air of importance, but Jon suspects it's nothing more than a façade. A terrible attempt at regaining some of the fear his very name inspires, even whilst captured and humbled at the hands of a _boy._

"Yes I did hear you prefer blondes." Jon quips, enjoying the startled crack in the Kingslayer's façade. "Bastard I may be, but my honour is intact." Jon nods. "I cannot say the same for yours."

"You are a boy, you know nothing of honour." Jamie spits.

Jon doesn't hide his stare. Jamie was a boy when he joined the Kingsguard, a child when he was knighted and a Kingslayer before he was nine and ten, a good man once…so how was it, a man such as he, became the kind of man to throw a child from a window, to stand back as a girl was beaten and tortured at the hands of his Bastard son, to allow his same Bastard to drive a city almost to ruin. How was it that a man seemingly so _cruel_ , could gift a woman with armour and a sword of immeasurable value, a squire to aide her on her ride and request a promise she protect the daughters of a dead woman.

"Why did you kill Aerys Targaryen?" Jon asks, and he knows that was not the question the Kingslayer expected, for his façade crumbles, and Jon sees the boy hidden inside the man.

Jamie swallows, and with obviously false bravado, he replies. "I was bored… seemed like a good idea at the time."

"No." Jon shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"It doesn't matter what you think _boy."_ The Kingslayer spits.

Jon knows Jamie Lannister doesn't understand simply how wrong his words are. How could he? The Kingsguard who knew of his existence are all dead. "One day Kingslayer, you'll find it does. Tell me why."

"I watched your Grandfather burned alive. Did you know that? I was a boy, but I was a sworn Knight of the Kingsguard, and so I stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, and I watched as Aerys chose Wildfire as his champion, and Lord Rickard Stark burned. I don't imagine you know what that smells like do you? The scent of a body burning, of flesh being melted from bones, and bone crumbling to ash; it doesn't smell like smoke, not at all, it smells like meat, the kind you're served at a feast, from a boar cooked over a spit."

Jon thinks of Mance Rayer tied to a stake in the courtyard of Castle Black, the sound of the screams torn from his lips as he _burned_ until he fell silent due to the arrow in his heart. He thinks of Ygritte, dead and gone, laid to rest in the way of her people, and knows the scent well. His face remains blank.

"No you wouldn't know would you boy?" Jamie continues and Jon realises the façade of Kingslayer is gone and the boy remains, the boy who witnessed horror after horror, from a man he was sworn to serve. "Can you imagine your Grandfather's screams? Can you imagine his son's? I watched Brandon Stark strangle himself with his own belt as he attempted to reach his sword to save his Father and ultimately fail to do both. I watched as two good men died, and I watched a King _laugh._ Do you know what Aerys did after watching your Grandfather burn? He visited the chambers of his sister-wife, and I had to stand at the side of my sworn brother, and guard the _Mad King_ as he raped her over and over again, because he was so aroused at the sight of your Grandfather burning alive. I was sworn to protect the Queen, just as I was sworn to protect the King and do you know what I was told as I listened to her scream? ' _Not from him. We don't protect her from him.'_ "

Jon feels the bile rise in his throat, feels the sweat bead on his brow and he swallows tightly, forcing the feeling down. He'll not show weakness here, not to _Ser_ Jamie Lannister, no matter how broken the man may be. Was this the legacy of the family he was born to? Rape and Wildfire and barely concealed taint of insanity? Did his Father have the taint? Rhaegar started a war by claiming Lyanna as his own, he abandoned his wife and children to die at the hands of the Lannister's and Jon can't imagine such a man to be unaffected by the taint of insanity, not with a father like Aerys.

"I killed Aerys Targaryen because he wanted Kings Landing to burn. I killed one man, to save the lives of thousands… and I will be remembered forever, not for saving those lives, but for taking the life of a King." Jaime finishes.

Jon hears the bitterness, and wonders just how much of Jamie Lannister was created at the hands of the Mad King, and how much was forged under the thumb of Cersei Lannister.

"And how is it that man, that _good man,_ threw a child from a window?" Jon asks, despite knowing the answer. He knows why Bran was pushed, he knows what Bran saw, and he knows what he himself heard.

" _He saw us!"_

" _The things I do for love"_

The façade of the Kingslayer returns, cracked and broken, and Jon knows he'll not gain anything else from the Kingslayer tonight. "I was bored…" The man repeats his earlier statement. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

Ghost snaps at the Kingslayer, and the man recoils. "Come Ghost." Jon calls, and the loyal Direwolf returns to his side. "Do give him some water won't you boys," Jon nods at the awed guards. "It would hardly be worth it if our prisoner dies of thirst before he can be tried for his crimes." The guards nod, and as he leaves, Jon sees the larger of the two men push a small cup through the bars and Jamie tip the water at his feet.

"I have no fear of death."

The furore still hasn't died as Jon returns to the centre of the camp, he sees men drinking and raising their cups to the King in the North, he hears revellers singing old Northern drinking songs, and sees many men with laughter on their lips… a rare moment of light in the darkness of war. Men move aside for him as he wanders, Ghost and Lady at his back providing them with the motivation to jump out of his path despite their drunken state. He can't see Robb among the Lords, and he's unsurprised, he knows Robb is in no mood to drink and no mood to celebrate the Northern Independence.

He enters Robb's tent warily, and finds his brother pacing back and forth like a caged wolf, and Jon thinks his brother looks remarkably like his Direwolf familiar as Robb catches sight of him in the doorway, and stalks toward him. Robb catches his shirt and unceremoniously drags him inside, the flaps closing behind him and Ghost and Lady abandoning their watch at his side to curl up aside Grey Wind and Nymeria in front of the roaring fire.

Jon watches his brother silently for what seems like an age. Finally, Robb speaks. "Why did you stop me?" The eldest Stark demands hotly, and Jon is reminded ever so clearly of just whom Robb gained his temper from. "It was the Dragons we bowed to, and the Dragons are dead." He mocks. "You are the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms Jon!"

"Rightful heir?" Jon scoffs. "I am the rightful heir of nothing Robb, the Seven Kingdoms rebelled against the Targaryen rule!"

"And now we rebel against the Baratheon rule!" Robb roars and Jon is glad for the revellers masking the sound of his brother's fury. "You can't just give away your birthright Jon, the world doesn't work like that! They would have bowed to you! A Targaryen, raised in the North? Raised by Eddard Stark no less? They would have fought for you all the way to the Iron Throne!"

Jon can't think of anything worse in this moment than being seated upon that bloody chair, and he says as much. "I don't want the fucking Iron Throne!"

"You have no choice!"

Jon recoils as Robb throws the words he spoke only hours before back in his face. "I have every choice." He hisses.

"Just like I had every choice?" Robb growls in askance. "You didn't allow me to object as they crowned me King in the North, and now I will be the second King to _bend the knee_!"

"No," Jon shakes his head. " _No,_ I can't allow you to-"

"And yet I will! I no more want this Kingship than you appear to want yours! I rode South to save our Father, I marched twenty thousand men South to demand his release and I am too late! Eddard Stark is dead, Rhaegar Targaryen is dead, and yet their sons _live_. I will be Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North because they are my birthright, and you will be King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, because those titles… are yours."

Jon shakes his head. "Those titles… Robb, they've never been mine. As far as the realm is concerned I'm Eddard Stark's bastard. The Bastard of Winterfell. That's my only title. This isn't the Wall, Bastards don't rise to be anything other than Bastards here, they don't become Sers or Lords or Kings… so what Ser, what Lord what _man_ , would follow me?"

"I would follow you." Robb states, his tone brokering no room for arguement. "Jon… you're as much a Bastard as I am. You're the last living Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the only son of Lyanna Stark… the Seven Kingdoms _need_ a man like you on the Iron Throne." Robb steps back, and draws his sword. Jon falters as he watches his brother, the newly crowned King in the North… _kneel._ "My sword is yours Jon, of the House Targaryen, in victory and defeat, from this day, until my last day."

"Robb…"

"Accept my vow brother." Robb orders. "We will fight in my name, we will fight in the name of the King in the North, will will fight for our Father and when the time comes… we will fight for yours." Robb says. "We will fight and we will not rest, not until it is known from the Saltshore in the South to the Wall in the North, that Robert's Rebellion was built on a lie… and you are the true heir to the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne."

Jon's hands shake and his heart thunders in his chest as he stares at his brother. "In victory and defeat… from this day, until your last day."

* * *

 **AN:** We know no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark. The crowning of Robb, a chat between the two brothers and a visit to Ser Jamie.

Let me know what you all think!

I cannot believe this story has reached 310 reviews, that 748 of you have added Cripples to your Favourites list, and 973 of you have Followed this, that's honestly insane! I honestly never expected such an overwhelming response to this story, and I can't thank you all enough!


	19. XIX - Honeyed Words

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XIX –** _Sansa_

* * *

Atop the walls of the Red Keep, Sansa watches the spectacle before her with a smile she knows only Jon would recognise as fake. Seated aside Joffrey on a curved wooden chair intricately carved with roaring lions and charging stags, beneath a gilded pavilion erected for his Name-day celebrations, she observes the people around her with a carefully disinterested eye.

Joffrey lounges on his chair in the same way he lounges on the Iron Throne, arrogantly, smugly, as though he was created in the Mad King's image, and not Jaime Lannister's. The very thought of Tywin Lannister's eldest son left her with many a conflicted feeling; he'd put armour on Brienne's back, a sword forged from Ice in her hand and charged the warrior with upholding the vow Jaime swore her Lady Mother, but could not uphold himself. However upon his return to Kings Landing he did nothing to pause Joffrey's cruelty; Tyrion had only been able to do so much to thwart Joffrey's desire to harm her, and Margaery's machinations to marry her safely to Loras had backfired spectacularly, the poisonous words Joffrey whispered in her ear at her first wedding proving their control of the monstrous King _lacking_.

" _I suppose it doesn't really matter which Lannister puts a baby into you… maybe I'll pay you a visit tonight after my Uncle passes out… would you like that? You wouldn't? That's alright, Ser Meryn and Ser Boros will hold you down."_

Joffrey has no good in him, no light, no honour, only madness and cruelty and evil; too much of Cersei and not enough of Jamie, she thinks, has made him this way. Sansa can feel his excitement, the emotion almost palpable on the air, as he watches every drop of blood exposed to the crowd.

The Hound strikes at his opponent's shield roughly; Clegane wields his Mace like a Northerner, with heavy hands and impossible strength, each blow brutal and unforgiving, he lacks the elegance and finesse of the Southern Knights and Sansa thinks it best the man is a warrior and not a Knight, for how else had such a man survived. The Southern Ser disarmed quickly, his sword clattering to the stone, and with a final blow of the Hound's mace, the Knight joins his weapon, falling from the parapets and landing with a wet _thud_ on the cobblestones below.

Joffrey rushes forward, leaning over the wall to eye the fallen Knight as he's dragged away, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. "Well struck." Sansa hears him murmur. "Well struck dog!" He yells as the Hound removes his helm. He returns to his seat. "Did you like that?"

Sansa smiles gaily as Joffrey looks to her and she nods. "Very impressive my love, I see now why you keep him in your service."

Joffrey smirks. "Indeed." He eyes the assembled Knights. "Who's next?" He calls.

"Lothor Brune, Free-Rider in the service of Lord Baelish!" A man dressed in Lannister red announces from the corner of the pavilion. "And, Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard."

Sansa folds her hands in her lap, and feels her fingernails press into her palms. She remembers Ser Dontos vividly, the fat kind drunk who'd served as the court fool for a year, suffering many a humiliation and beating at the hands of Joffrey's Kingsguard. Sansa wonders what would be kinder, to slowly choke on the wine he so adores, or with a crossbow bolt through his neck after liberating her from the Purple Wedding? She remembers the necklace he gifted her, the beautiful piece he claimed as his _Mother's_ , the necklace she had worn proudly, until Petyr Baelish ripped it from her neck and revealed its true purpose. Its cerulean crystals filled with poison, and used by Olenna Tyrell to murder the King she'd used to make her Granddaughter Queen. She relaxes her hands, and the pressure on her palms eases.

"Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard!" The man yells, and finally Ser Dontos appears, rosy cheeked and flushed from the wine, his breastplate askew and unfastened, clutching his helmet and blunted sword awkwardly and Sansa can't imagine how he'd been knighted in the first place.

"Here I am!" Ser Dontos calls. "Here I am." He stumbles, and his helmet falls from his grip, clanging loudly against the cobblestone. "Sorry Your Grace." He mumbles, picking up his fallen helmet and putting it on backwards. "My deepest apologies." He turns his helmet around, and Sansa leans forward as Joffrey stands.

"Are you drunk?" He sneers, and Ser Dontos removes his helmet once again, clutching it to his chest with one hand, the other holding his battered sword.

"No! Uh no, Your Grace." He mumbles, shamed and Sansa isn't sure how such a man survived for so many years in her last life, let alone saved her life. "I had, uh, I had two cups of wine."

"Two cups?" Joffrey questions, and Ser Dontos nods. "That's not much at all." Joffrey smirks, and gestures to a pitcher of wine resting on a table under the pavilion. "Please, have another cup."

Ser Dontos eyes the wine greedily, and steps toward it, before turning his gaze back unto the King warily. "Are, are you sure Your Grace?"

Sansa knows the danger in Joffrey's smile, knows the cruelty hidden behind the thin veneer of kingly grace, and realises, for all she calls him boy-king, this Name-Day means he's the same age as Robb… a boy of seventeen. Robb made many a stupid decision in his rule in her last life, yet he remained kind and just and honourable, three traits that could never be used to describe Joffrey's own Kingship. How different her sweet brother is to this _monster._ "Yes, to celebrate my name day, have two, have three, have as much as you like."

"I would be honoured, Your Grace."

The veneer melts, and the cruelty reveals itself. "Ser Meryn, help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day. See that he drinks his fill."

Ser Meryn moves swiftly, Ser Mandon Moore at his back, apprehending the drunk knight and dragging him to the widest part of the walls, forcing Ser Dontos to his knees and tilting his head back, Sansa leans toward Joffrey as Ser Boros Blount fetches a horn, and a barrel of Dornish Red.

"My love," Sansa begins, watching Ser Meryn force Ser Dontos's mouth open with the horn out the corner of her eye, "Ser Dontos has shamed your Name-Day celebrations it is true, and he undoubtedly deserves to be punished, but what a man sows on his Name-Day, he reaps all year."

"You have a soft heart my Lady, but I do not abide to such stupid peasant superstition-"

The Hound interrupts and Sansa withholds a smirk, she hadn't expected his aid in her last life, but she hoped he'd help again in this one, and she's glad her hope is proved true. "The girl is wise Your Grace, she speaks the truth."

Joffrey expels a put-up sigh. "Ser Meryn, take him away. I'll have him killed tomorrow, the fool."

Ser Meryn obeys, and Ser Boros sets the still closed barrel of Dornish Red aside, and helps Ser Mandon hoist the fat Knight to his feet, the man stumbling, but unharmed in comparison to her last life.

"He is." Sansa smiles and makes her decision, speaking the same words that spared Ser Dontos in her last life. She suspects she'll not have the aid of House Tyrell in the Capital, should Jon succeed in securing them for their cause, and Sansa knows, even the most useless of allies, is still an ally she needs. "A fool, you're so clever to see it. He'd make a far better fool than a Knight."

Joffrey grins, and Sansa knows the thought she's put into his head has taken root. He stands, his yellow cloak flapping in the breeze. "Did you hear My Lady Ser Dontos? From this day, you'll be my new fool."

Ser Dontos bows shakily, "Thank you, Your Grace." He says loudly, "And you, My Lady," Sansa looks to him and nods. "Thank you."

She looks to Joffrey and smiles. "You are kind and just, my love." She lies easily, listening as the disgraced Knight is led away by Ser Boros and Ser Mandon.

Joffrey takes her hand, and presses a kiss to the back, and Sansa longs to tear her hand from his grip, and scrub at the skin touched by his lips, until its red and raw, and a new layer of skin can grow in its place. "My Lady-"

"May I present, Ser Kevan, of House Lannister, second son of Tytos Lannister, brother of Tywin Lannister, Your Grace."

Joffrey stands, dropping her hand, and Sansa resists the urge to wipe the back of her hand on her dress. She remembers, in her last life, Joffrey's Name-Day celebrations were interrupted by Tyrion, but with the youngest Lannister brother still her Lady Mother's _guest_ in Winterfell, and _Ser_ Jaime still at Robb's mercy in the Riverlands... Tywin's only true option to bring Joffrey and Cersei to heel, is Ser Kevan Lannister.

"Your Grace." Ser Kevan bows, his retinue following lead in deference to their King. "Your Lord Grandfather Tywin, sends me in his stead, I am to act in his place as Hand of the King."

"Did he now?" Joffrey asks, stepping off the edge of the pavilion. "Tell me Uncle, why couldn't my _esteemed_ Lord Grandfather answer my summons himself?"

Sansa watches Ser Kevan closely, he projects respect in his actions, and she knows his loyalty to House Lannister is absolute, but she sees it in his eyes; he knows Tywin is losing. The great Lord of Casterly Rock defeated over and over again by a _boy_ a mere third of his age, both his Son's lost to the North, and though she believes he's not aware; another bargaining chip lost, when she spirited Arya from Kings Landing.

"Your Lord Grandfather is fighting a War, Your Grace." Ser Kevan answers finally.

"My Lord Grandfather is losing a War, you mean. First he lost the Imp, and then Uncle Jaime… hardly a winning battle strategy." Joffrey taunts.

Ser Kevan ducks his head, his jaw clenched and his posture rigid. He's angry, she knows. She recognises it easily, she saw the same tells in Joffrey in her last life, in Cersei, in Ramsey Bolton and Littlefinger, and wonders if it's the disrespect to his eldest brother and Liege Lord, or the fact he's talking orders from a child that has ignited the flame of anger inside Ser Kevan.

"If I may take my leave Your Grace, I believe there is a Small Council meeting I must attend." Ser Kevan asks, head raised, his voice carefully controlled.

Joffrey waves his hand. "You may go."

"Your Grace." Ser Kevan nods, and rises.

Sansa watches him go, his red-cloaked retinue following behind. She remembers Tyrion's entrance, how he kissed Myrcella's cheek and ruffled Tommen's curls, how he looked her in the eye and reminded her her Lord Father was a good man, an honourable man, and his death was _unnecessary_. Ser Kevan's entrance in comparison is almost startling in its difference; he had not a smile for Myrcella , nor a glance for Tommen, he didn't offer her words of kindness or his regrets, his eyes, his words were only for Joffrey. Sansa hadn't truly realised how little use House Lannister had for Myrcella and Tommen beyond that of a bride to be sold or a spare to sit upon the Iron Throne should Joffrey fall.

Sansa listens with half an ear as the red-cloaked announcer calls for the next opponents, her thoughts still on the sweet children untouched by their Mother's madness. Myrcella is only a mere year younger than the child Sansa is now, and Tommen, the sweet boy, the same age as Bran is again… and, she'd forgotten them. Tommen, who didn't wish for Robb to die and tried to make her laugh, Myrcella, who was so excited to wear a pretty dress and brought her flowers when Cersei wasn't keeping watch. She hadn't a thought for them when Peytr Balish spirited her first to the Vale and then to the North, and after she travelled to Castle Black and retook Winterfell at Jon's side, she hadn't a thought for them then. She remembers Tommen, crying by the water as Myrcella waved a shaky goodbye from the boat ferrying her to the ship set to take her to Dorne… innocent still, no matter the circumstances of their birth, and she wonders, can she condemn them to death?

The sun begins to set, and the celebrations move to the King's Ballroom, a large chamber three times as large as the Queen's Ballroom, with the same beaten silver mirrors behind the wall sconces to enhance the torchlight. The long table is laden with food; meat from the Westerlands cooked with spices imported from the Free Cities across the Narrow sea, vegetables from the Reach roasted and glazed with honey, fruit sprinkled with sugar and Cakes piled high on golden plates and Sansa thinks it is this, that has sent the Crown so deep into dept. She slips away after filling her stomach and Joffrey's eyes are no longer upon her, so deep into his cups, she knows he'll not notice anything more than the emptying of his glass.

Sansa finds herself in the same section of the Royal Gardens she hid herself away in the day her Lord Father informed her of his intentions to send her and Arya back to Winterfell.

 _Arya_.

Sansa wonders if her sweet sister is safe, further South than any Stark aside from their Lord Father and their Aunt Lyanna had journeyed in either life. She wonders if Loras is teaching Arya how to use Needle, in the way Jon was never able to do. She remembers the story Jon had told her, reminiscing before the fire in the Lord Commander's chambers at Castle Black, of the only instruction he'd given Arya when gifting her with the Mikken forged rapier.

" _First lesson. Stick 'em with the pointy end."_

Sansa looks out to sea. There are no trade ships sailing into the Harbour now, instead they're docked, crowded together like the residents of Flea Bottom; she imagines their captains are as far into their cups as Joffrey or perhaps whoring themselves into an early grave in one of Littlefinger's thriving brothels. She remembers standing in this very spot, so many weeks ago, watching the ships sail for Dorne and the Free Cities, wishing so desperately for home.

Sansa doesn't wish for Winterfell now, not for her Lady Mother and Rickon, not for Bran or Robb, not for her Lord Father reunited with his eldest brother and only sister in the realm of the Old Gods, nor Arya at Ser Loras's side… but _Jon_.

He's closer now, leading the Northern Army alongside Robb, _South_ for the first time in his life, the Riverlands leagues closer than their distant home and she longs to run to his side, and stay, safe and sound in his arms, for as long as he'll allow. It's a futile wish, she knows, for as long as the War rages and she remains here, the lone wolf among the lions… they'll not be reunited as they were in their last life.

"Hello little Wolf."

Sansa instinctively reaches for the blade she's kept sheathed at her leg since Jon gifted it to her as she turns from the sea. She stops, blade bared, holding it against the perfumed Master of Whisper's throat, and she knows she's made a fatal error.

"My, my," Varys breathes, undaunted by the knife poised at his jugular, "Aren't you just _full_ of surprises."

Sansa smirks and wonders if he can see her fear through the bravado. She's not meant to lose her head. "Lord Varys, how pleasant it is to make your acquaintance... _officially._ "

"Yes," He smiles, hands still clasped calmly over his rotund belly, making no move to step away from the blade. "How is it, a proper young lady such as yourself, got a hold on a dagger such as this?"

"It was a gift." Sansa states, and he nods.

"Not from your Lord Father, dear heavens no, perhaps one of your brothers... The King in the North perhaps?" Sansa raises her chin. "No matter." He continues, "You are a _clever_ little thing aren't you... I do suppose it is this very dagger you so desperately tried to reach as our good King Joffrey ordered Ser Illyn to take your Lord Father's head."

Sansa's grip on the dagger does not waver, and she knows she's just given Varys his answer.

"Yes, so clever." Varys whispers. "I heard a song, not weeks past, of a tête-à-tête, in this very rose garden... a sweet little tale of alliances and _escapes._ " He smiles. "Tell me little Wolf, what would make a child, raised by Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully, far from the politics of the South, seek to become a player in this Game of Thrones."

 _"When you play the Game of Thrones you win or you die... there is no middle ground."_

Sansa eyes the perfumed Master of Whispers; the finest collector of secrets on either side of the Narrow Sea, and smiles. "I will not be a pawn in a game won or lost on the whims of the unworthy. I will play... and I will _win."_

"And who do you deem worthy My Lady?" He asks, and Sansa finds his tone of voice rather patronising. "Perhaps your King in the North? Or is it the Targaryen girl across the Narrow Sea?"

"Do not presume to know where my loyalties truly lie Lord Varys, you will be disappointed... and you will be wrong." Sansa growls, feeling Lady at the forefront of her mind. "You say you serve the Realm, yet where were you as Elia Martell was brutalised and murdered in her Bed Chamber? Where were you when young Prince Aegon's head was dashed against the stone and Princess Rhaenys was stabbed until there were more holes than body? You allow that _Bastard King_ to sit upon the Iron Throne and you send little birds to assassinate his rivals. You stood idly by as my Lord Father lost his head and you did _nothing!_ You have fooled even yourself with your honeyed words Lord Varys, you stopped serving the realm the instant you allowed Tywin Lannister to get his claws into Robert Baratheon and now, House Lannister is your master too."

Sansa removes her blade and sheathes it again at her thigh. "I have enjoyed our chat Lord Varys... I do hope you seek me out again." She smiles prettily. "There is much we should discuss." She sweeps past him, leaving the ever unflappable Lord Varys pale and drawn. Her head is safe, she knows, and soon, she'll have another ally in this wretched place.

* * *

 **AN:** And here is the first of many interactions I have planned for our favourite Master of Whispers and our little Wolf.

I would like to thank all of you for sticking with me, I know my updates are unorganised and sporadic at best, and I apologise for that, I always have been a little _chaotic_ , however I had a very dear family member pass on suddenly a few weeks ago, which halted any motivation I had to write, so I do thank every single one of you for being so patient and lovely!

CBaBT just this morning cracked 900 Favourites (specifically 901), so I cannot thank you all enough for the response to this story, all 1,152 Follows and 369 Reviews, thank you!


	20. XX - Three Kingdoms, Three Armies

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XX –** _Jon_

* * *

The war council has convened.

Robb's tent is crowded, the Northern and River Lords alike argue loudly, each fighting for their opinion to be heard over the din. Jon braces his weight upon his fists as he leans over the great wooden table, his mind occupied with the contents of the scroll clenched in his hand, even as he surveys the detailed map of Westeros they'd pilfered from Jamie Lannister's tent in the aftermath of the Battle of the Camps. He feels Robb move to stand at his left, adopting a similar stance, and Jon knows the warring Lords are forgotten as his brother studies the map intensely.

 _Ghost,_

 _Our beloved Nymeria travels South, know she is safe and in the company of one who bares the sigil that adorns your Lady Mother's crown._

 _Find her... bring her home._

 _Remember, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

 _Lady._

Jon can almost hear her voice whispering the words of the letter in his ear as he watches Robb pace the length of the table; it's the last line of the scroll that bothers him so, a written reminder of the words their Father repeated so often when they were children… _when the snows fall and the white winds blow... the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. Years it took in their last life for only Sansa and himself to be reunited, and he'll not wait that long to ensure his siblings- _cousins_ \- safety in this life. House Stark is strongest together, and he'll see them together again.

Robb places a carved lion's head upon the dot marked Harrenhal. "We've received word that Tywin Lannister means to regroup at Harrenhal and despite the decimation of the force led by the Kingslayer, they're still thirty thousand strong. Attacking Harrenhal is a fools march, the Castle is too large to surround with our numbers, even with the River Lords; Tywin will know this and expect an attack from the rear as they retreat; I'll not play into his hands."

Jon concurs quietly and realises what his brother intends to do a moment later, fixing Robb with an incredulous stare. "You mean to split our force."

"I do." Robb answers as he retrieves a carved Direwolf bust from the edge of the map, and deposits it in the centre of the Westerlands. "Three Kingdoms, Three armies." He states, moving around the table to the North. "Mother holds the North with the aid of the Mountain Clans, ships are being built for trade and every Keep is preparing for Winter." Robb moves again, and gestures to the largest cluster of Direwolf busts in the Riverlands. "We may have forced Tywin into a retreat, but our hold here is tenuous at best; we'll not hold the Riverlands for long if we do not return the River Lords to their Keeps."

Jon tightens his grip on the scroll, and refocuses upon the map. "As long as Tywin's mad dog roams the Riverlands, it will matter not how many Keeps we return to the River Lords, if Clegane breaches their walls and puts the entirety of the castle to the sword." Jon states. The nod is subtle and he prays Robb will understand. The Mountain scaled the walls of the Red Keep to murder Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon; what chance did any castle or keep in the Riverlands hold of keeping that monster at bay? "Brother, you know as well as I, The Mountain does not discriminate. Our force is not large enough to garrison every Castle against him, and with our force split, we would not be able to offer aide."

"Not every Castle no." Robb murmurs. "But perhaps some." He gestures to the lone Direwolf bust in the Westerlands. "Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood each mean to take a small force to reclaim their Keeps, and I am inclined to allow them to, and whilst they do so-"

"The Northern faction of our Army invades the Westerlands." Jon finishes.

Robb grins. "I see you're catching on brother."

Jon nods, and but sees flaws in his brother's plan. "I assume we will lead the Northern host West?" He asks, and at Robb's nod, he raises a brow. "Who do you mean to leave in command of the River Lords? Your Lord Grandfather is in no fit state to head the House of Tully, let alone head an Army."

"My Mother's brother, Edmure, he's held command of the Riverlands for many a moon's turn now."

Jon wonders if perhaps another would be best. He remembers the auburn haired, Tully heir, many years his senior, dirty and starving after suffering the hospitality of Jamie Lannister's host. Edmure Tully's command was riddled with blunders; the Golden Tooth lost after spreading his force too thin in order to circumvent The Mountain's raids, in turn allowing Jamie Lannister's first devastating victory there, and again below the walls of Riverrun, the Great Castle only held due to Lord Tytos Blackwood's retreat.

"I would not reward him with further command," Jon says softly, slowly, careful of the still warring Lords; it would not do for them to overhear. "To do so would impress upon him that a blunder is a victory, and the lives of the loyal Bannermen his decisions cost were a paltry loss."

Robb raises a brow, but nods nonetheless. His voice is low when he speaks again. "Who would you recommend… my King?"

Jon glares, not fond of the reminder of the seat Robb expects him to take. "Ser Brynden Tully, The Blackfish. You are King in the North and of the Trident, reward those who respect your title, and who call you by it, not those who call you Nephew, and believe that war is glory to be shared by all."

"Perhaps you should take your own advice Brother." Robb whispers, "I am King in the North and of the Trident in name alone, the first King since Torrhen Stark to bend the knee to a Targaryen son; you may not want the Iron Throne, but that brother, is why you, more than anyone, deserve to be King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men."

Jon can't bare to look Robb in the eye; his Lord Father's legacy frightens him. He cannot imagine sitting upon the ugly Iron Chair his ancestors forged as their seat of power, as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. He was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch for a year before he died at the hands of the men who chose him to lead; how could he rule the Seven Kingdoms when he could not rule half a thousand men? His naïve believe that saving the Free Folk would be without dire consequence had led to his death, but the honour instilled in him, and the honour he would see above all in others, was what sealed his fate.

 _"You are as stubborn as your Father... and as honourable. Honour got your Father killed."_

He has no doubt had Sansa not come to Castle Black, he would have died again Beyond the Wall, fighting a losing war against the Others. Jon thinks of her then. _Sansa_. He can imagine Sansa ruling, a kind and just and _good_ Queen; unseen since the days of the Good Queen Alysanne. The image his mind conjures is traitorous and cruel... all but impossible now, in this life. He and Sansa, together once more, ruling as they did in Winterfell... Jaehaerys and Alysanne, born again.

"We cannot go West." He speaks finally.

Robb scowls. "And do you say this as my adviser or as my King?"

Jon refuses to flinch in the face of his brother's anger and reluctantly, offers Sansa's scroll. "I say this as your Brother."

"Arya..." He breathes. "We hadn't heard- the note before didn't mention-" Robb clutches him like a lifeline, and Jon thinks he's never seen his brother turn so white. "Jon, she's alive, Arya's alive."

"We have to go South." Jon states. "We cannot leave her... you remember Father's words."

"I can't abandon our Army." Robb protests weakly.

Jon eyes the map, a plan forming in his mind as he remembers Robb's words as they stood on the banks of the River Trident, their army at their back, and their Father in the clutches of the Lannister's… how long ago it seems now.

" _If I am to lead this army, I can't have other men do my bargaining for me"_

"Renly Baratheon has named himself King, at present he controls the majority of the Stormlands and the entirety of the Reach; Sansa's note said Arya was ' _in the company of one who bares the sigil that adorns your Lady Mother's crown'_ the only Great House whom bares the sigil of a Rose is House Tyrell." Jon says softly, praying Robb does not ask the question he dares not answer. How had Sansa learned the truth of his parentage?

"You believe Arya is with Renly Baratheon?" Robb asks.

Jon nods. "I pray she is."

Robb leans back over the map, and seems to come to a decision. "My Lords!" He calls loudly, quickly gaining the soul attention of the room. "If you would cease your petty arguments, I bid you all to take a seat."

The Lords are quick to acquiesce, clamouring for the few seats around the large table, resigning themselves to standing when the chairs are filled.

"Lord Bracken." The old River Lord stands to attention. "You believed the proper course was once clear; pledge fealty to Renly Baratheon as King. Lord Glover." Robb's attention turns to the Northern Lord. "You believed we should kneel before Stannis Baratheon, and proclaim him our King." Robb eyes the assembled Lords, finally settling upon the Greatjon. "Lord Umber, it was you who led the charge to crown me King in the North."

The Lord's voices sound like a clap of thunder as they reply; "The King in the North!"

"The Kingslayer lies chained at our feet, his army dead beneath the ground and his Lord Father flees to Harrenhal... but this war is far from over!" Robb roars. "Winter is Coming for the South, and they will soon learn why we hold the North, and why none will ever take it from us!"

Jon at his brother's side, eyes the River and Northern Lords alike, men, far older than Robb and himself, who _believe_ in the King in the North and he wonders... will their belief hold, when the truth is revealed, and a _Bastard_ becomes King?

"My Lords!" Robb calls the revelling Lords back to attention. "The Lannister's raise a force in the Westerlands, and soon a host of _boys so green they piss grass_ will be marching at our backs. They will not live to see the Trident." Robb growls. "They think themselves safe behind their borders, they believe the tales of Tywin's _wrath_ will protect their sons; Ashemark, Lannisport, _Casterly Rock_ , they will become Castemere, and House Lannister will soon find themselves as House Reyne did, surrounded by enemies, in a battle they cannot win." Robb directs his gaze to the Greatjon, the white-bearded man straightens almost imperceptibly. "Lord Umber; the Northern force is yours to lead."

The Greatjon stands, and Jon sees the conflict lining his face. "It's an honour Your Grace," He rumbles, "but I must ask... we are your army My King, we fight with you at our head, why will you not lead us?"

"We are in need of allies, Lord Umber. I said to you on the banks of the Trident that I would do my own bargaining in this war, and I uphold my word; I mean to go South and treat with Renly Baratheon."

Jon raises a hand before the gathered Lords have time to react. "My Lords, together we are perhaps thirty thousand men in this War. Renly Baratheon holds the majority of the Stormlands and the entirety of the Reach. If he chose to view us as his enemy, we would be outnumbered three to one."

"Aye, my brother is right. My Lord Grandfather's Bannermen have been decimated; fathers, brothers, sons lie beneath the Trident, cut down by men flying Lannister banners and yet their leader, sits at my table unharmed." Robb pauses, and Jon watches Edmure raise his chin defiantly, unbothered by the River Lord's glares. "Tell me Heir Tully, do you believe you led your Lord Father's men well?"

Edmure nods, not bothering to stand as the Greatjon did, a show of disrespect not lost upon the Lords, Jon notes. "I believe so Nephew, after all, loss is a part of war."

"Show your King the respect he deserves boy, address him as ' _Your Grace',_ " Brynden Tully growls, from where he stands. The aging Knight cuts an imposing figure Jon thinks, his auburn hair has long since turned grey, and unlike his nephew, bedecked in red and blue, Ser Brynden would not look out of place at the Wall, attired in all black as he is. "I know my brother taught you better at his knee."

"Calm Ser Brynden." Jon murmurs.

"You Edmure, are many years my senior, yet you act like a petulant child reprimanded by his Father. Loss is not a part of war, those men did not die because it was _necessary,_ they died because _you_ were arrogant." Robb continues, and Jon sees a few River Lords nod in agreement. "A blunder is not a victory, and were it not for Lord Blackwood ordering a retreat, Riverrun would have been lost along with the Golden Tooth. You will no longer have command of your Lord Father's Bannermen, that right, from today until his last day, will lie with Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish of House Tully.

"You have no right-"

"I have every right!" Robb thunders. "Fifteen thousand men you lost, fifteen thousand good men sworn to your House, and you sit at my table only because of the men sworn to _me_. Men who knelt before me and crowned me King in the North, men whom fought at my side to _free_ you from Jamie Lannister, men whom will fight to return the Riverlands to the very same River Lords who crowned me King in the Trident." Robb leans forward, over the table in much the same manner as he had when facing down the Greatjon in Winterfell. "This is the right I hold _Uncle,_ I am the first King of Winter since the days of Torrhen Stark, I am the King in the North and of the Trident and I am your King! Be thankful I have no desire to take your head."

Jon allows himself a small smile. Robb's words have a visible effect on both the Northern and River Lords, and he thinks finally, they're seeing him as more than the boy who won a few battles and finally, as a King in his own right.

"House Lannister has many eyes across Westeros." Jon begins, when the furore dies. "We cannot expect our intention to treat with Renly Baratheon to remain within our camp for long; Lord Blackwood, Lord Bracken. You mean to petition King Robb to allow you to reclaim your Keeps."

"Aye." Jonos Bracken agrees, as Tytos Blackwood merely nods. Jon supposes this, is the first the two men have agreed upon anything.

"I will allow you to do so." Robb picks up where Jon left off. "However, we cannot garrison every Castle and Keep against him; the young Lord Darry will be fostered in Riverrun, until such time as the Mountain is slain, and the Riverlands are safe again."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Tytos Blackwood murmurs, Jonos Bracken echoing him.

"Lord Umber will lead the Northern force West. Our scouts have informed us of the location of a training camp, here." Jon says and motions to the map. "Just outside of Oxcross."

Greatjon steps closer to the map, and Jon watches him subtly as the Lord of the Last Hearth studies the border of the Westerlands. "We'll have a hard time crossing into the West undetected."

"You will, but it is not impossible to do so. As King Robb explained, Tywin's attention will be focused here, on the Riverlands. Ser Brynden will garrison Riverrun, and keep the force of the River Lords stationed there until our return from the South." Jon finishes.

The Lords seem to be mostly in agreement, he notes with some relief, though his unease flares when he eyes the man he knows as Roose Bolton. They've never had the misfortune to meet, but Jon recognises him in an instant; the shape of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the cold cruelty in his eyes. _Ramsey Bolton_. The very thought of the Bastard's name makes his blood boil and Jon imagines he looks much like Ghost in this moment and fights to regain control of his anger.

 _"If Ramsey wins I'll not go back there alive... do you understand me?"_

This is the father of the monster who put an arrow in Rickon's back and near irreparably broke Sansa's sprit. He remembers what she was like, those first weeks at the Wall; skittish, terrified, so certain the Bastard had followed her, and she'd be returned to his clutches. He remembers how she'd flinch away from those who meant to touch her, or even raised a hand in her peripheral vision... and how she'd never move further than an arm's length from his side, how before the fire in his chambers, she'd seek his hand, and lean into him; a first moment of safety since she'd left Winterfell as a child.

"Bring me Ser Alton Lannister."

It's the Blackfish who moves first, the Greatjon crossing to his side with speed that beguiles his large size; they return swiftly, Ser Alton between them, the young Knight looking worse for ware, caked with dirt and dried blood.

"You are Ser Alton Lannister." Robb states.

"I am Your Grace."

Robb nods. "I offer your cousins peace if they meet my terms. First, your family must release my sister _s_." Jon, at Robb's side, barely restrains a smirk. He does not doubt Sansa's actions to spirit Arya from Kings Landing have gone unnoticed, and suspects Cersei has her Red Cloaks searching the Crownlands for his youngest sister even as they sit here. "Second, my father's bones must be returned to us so he may rest beside his brother and sister in the crypts beneath Winterfell... and the remains of all those who died in his service must also be returned. Their families can honour them with proper funerals."

"An honorable request, Your Grace." Alton murmurs respectfully.

"Third, Joffrey and the Queen Regent must renounce all claim to dominion of the North. From this time, until the end of time, we are a free and independent Kingdom."

"The King in the North." The Lords murmur reverently, and Jon wonders again if they'll retain their reverence, when the truth is revealed, and he takes the mantel Robb wishes him to.

"Neither Joffrey nor any of his men shall set foot in our lands again. If he disregards this command, he shall suffer the same fate as my Lord Father, only I don't need a _servant_ to do my beheadding for me."

Alton has turned pale, and Jon commends the man for staying upright. "These are... Your Grace, these are..."

"These are my terms. If the Queen Regent and her son meet them, I'll give them peace. If not, I will litter the South with Lannister dead."

"King Joffrey is a Baratheon, Your Grace." Jon sees Alton's courage waver as he complete's his sentence.

"Oh, is he?" Robb drawls, and Alton blanches further. "You'll ride at daybreak, Ser Alton." He nods, and the Blackfish and Greatjon move again to the young Knight's side, and escort him from the tent. Robb looks to the Lords next. "That will be all for tonight, My Lords. On the morrow, we move. Rest well."

Jon waits until the Lords have vacated Robb's tent to speak again. "The Queen Regent will not accept your terms brother... but you know this."

Robb nods his agreement. "I do."

"Robb... if I take Rhaegar's mantle, if I become the ruler of the _Seven_ _Kingdoms_..." He trails off, unable to finish his statement. What if they end this war, only to begin a new one? In his last life, he knows even if the shattered remnants of the North, the Night's Watch and the Wildlings had fought as one against the Night King... they would have lost. To fight and to win... every army in Westeros must fight as one.

"I promise you brother," Robb grips his arm strongly, "the North will be one day yours... just as it is now mine."

Jon tightens his grip, and prays Robb is right.

* * *

 **AN:** The Young Wolf and the White Wolf plan, the Red Wolf's message finally reaching them.

A lot of talking in this chapter, and I worry, a fair bit of repetitiveness, for that I apologise. This chapter was difficult, both to write and to find again the motivation I had lost.

Thank you again, all of you, for exceeding all my wishes for the response to this story. We've cracked 400 Reviews (423 to be exact) and much to my joy, 1041 readers on this site have added CBaBT to their Favourites list. To the 1291 of you who've placed CBaBT onto their Follows list, I thank you for your faith, and hope you enjoy this update you've all waited so long for.


	21. XXI - An Impossible Choice

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XXI –** _Bran_

* * *

He wakes, to a world so loud his chest is crushed and he can't _breathe._

His wings hold him aloft and his feet are bare; the cold sinks into his bones with the bite of a thousand knives drawn slowly across his skin. His mouth falls open in a silent scream- before his eardrums shatter and he _bleeds_ , hot and red, his blood leaving a burning trail as it drips past his jawline and down his neck, an unholy screech cutting violently through the frigid air.

He's wrenched sideways by the wind, and he realises, in an instant; he knows this place, though he's never seen it quite like this. He's a hundred leagues from Westwatch-by-the Bridge, eight hundred feet above the ground he was dragged across. Watchmen and Wildlings alike scramble to regain their footing as they run, down, down, down the zig-zagging staircases and Bran thinks them dead, for that is what they'll all surely be.

He watches, as the ice cracks, and the Wall... _falls._

Bran's wings falter, and for a moment, he goes the way of the Wall, tumbling, dropping, freefalling until he regains his strength and rights himself, and he realises his world is... silent.

The air chills further, and Bran feels his blood turn to ice as the last of the Wall drops and the snow settles, the true extent of the Night King's army revealed to the South. The dead walk; half dismembered giants, wildling children, brutalised Watchmen, sunken cheeked Spearwives and skeletal men of every size- a macabre parade of bodies, guarded by the Night King's lieutenants astride once beautiful Destriers. His heart threatens to stop in his chest as the air shifts and the hairs on his arms stand on end; eyes as bright and blue as stars stealing the breath from his lungs.

" _Dragons are fire made flesh... and fire, is power."_

Horror strikes him; wrong, wrong, _wrong_ his mind screams, a Dragon, a being born of _fire_ , perverted and twisted by the Other's magic. Part of him recoils, glimpses of gold and cream pass across his mind, of this of this glorious creature, wondrously, gorgeously _alive_ in the salt and sun of Meereen, plumes of orange flame spewing from his jaws- dead, dead, _dead_ \- his mind roars, and the vision is gone, replaced with torn wings and wilted deathly blue scales, the personification of ice riding upon it's back.

Bran's body twists, his back _bends_ , and he's somewhere else. His eyes close, and sound returns to his world.

He drops from the air and finds his footing atop the tallest of a squat square tower of crisp white stone, knees weak and struggling to breathe easily. Three tiers of gardens and beauty, circled by three rings built from the same white stone lay spread out like a map on a table before him. The lowest level, almost a full league from the tower he stands upon is a labyrinth, dotted intermittedly with hidden enclaves with carved stone settees for lovers to steal a secret kiss and well-tended rose gardens of every colour, with raised stone bird-baths filled with water. With a raven's eyes he sees an orchard filled with fruit ripe for the picking and hears a frog croaking so loud it echoes off the stones of the pond it sits beside. It's beautiful, and he itches to explore; the child he once was could have spent hours here, running through the hedges, climbing the old oaks he sees standing tall, dipping his fingertips in the ponds so filled with _life._

The second is different. Homes and market stalls; alike with Winter Town, but filled with people, seemingly as small as ants from his view, as they go about their lives ignorant of the eyes watching from above. He hears the faintest strains of music drifting up from the city below and smells the unmistakeable scent of fresh bread, mingling with something that tastes sweet on his tongue, but he cannot name. His wings expand, and he drops. Unseen, he walks among them, following a path he inexplicably knows, though he's never trodden upon these cobblestones before. Children run happily through the streets, merchants hock their goods; coloured silks and cotton, lace and threads of every colour, jewellery and barrels upon barrels of Arbor wine. Trade is roaring here he sees, quickly losing count of the number of times he witnesses coin changing hands as he walks.

The third and highest tier is different again, the buildings here are both old and new, the original square fortifications are of age with Winterfell, constructed, he knows, in the Age of Heroes. There's something familiar in the white brick, and when he lays his palm flat against the stone, he feels it, thrumming beneath his fingers, faded and dissipating as it is… _magic._ Bran knows the legends, he feels the truth of them in the Raven, of the end of the Dawn of Days and the beginning of the Age of Heroes. How the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne from Essos and cut down the Weirwoods, how the Children of the Forest, angered at the disrespect to their Gods, broke the Arm, and flooded the Neck. He knows the Maesters have mourned not the loss of the names of those who signed the pact of the Isle of the Faces and ended the War but Bran suspects Garth Greenhand, did so, for the familiar magic built into the elder towers of Highgarden tells its own tale. A tale, he imagines, is repeated in the bricks in the bricks laid by Durran Godsgrief, after the divine parents of his Elenei raised his keep on the eve of their wedding, massacring his family. Only the seventh castle built stood against the wrath of the Gods, and stands still, though Durran's line exists only through a Bastard line of House Targaryen… House Baratheon of Storms End. His own ancestor's story is woven throughout these legends; tales from the Reach claim him as Garth Greenhand's descendant, tales from the Stormlands insist he advised Durran Godsgrief on the construction of Storm's End. Even the Raven knows not the truth of Bran the Builder, only that he wove magic into the stones of Winterfell with the aid of his Forest bride and rose the Wall on the backs of Giants and magic.

Curiously Bran reaches for one of the newer towers, tall and slender, covered in climbing roses and ivy and feels… nothing. He's surprised by the disappointment that blooms in his chest. Their sigil is stamped on every surface, golden and shining; etched onto armour and woven into tapestries, shaped into the cobblestones and emblazoned upon doors. _Growing Strong_ his mind whispers. The Castle Sept of Highgarden is grand and ostentatious, overshadowed only by the Starry Sept in Oldtown and the Great Sept of Baelor in Kings Landing, he knows. It makes the Raven within uncomfortable; the New Gods are not theirs to worship, no matter his Lady Mother's preference for the Seven's pantheon. He is of the Old Gods, of the Children and the Weirwoods; a First Man, for forever and a day.

The Three Sisters loom powerfully ahead, ancient and _graceful_ in the breeze, bone coloured trunks so entwined by the ages it is hard to tell where the first begins and the third ends.

It's like coming home.

Vermillion leaves rustle above him, and three solemn faces stare into his very soul. Only their eyes follow his movement, the Old Gods marking his footsteps, and guiding his way to her. She looks… _young_. Incredibly so, even beneath her dyed blonde locks and the smudges of coal along her jawline and cheekbones changing the perceived angles of his wild sister's face into something less Stark and more Tyrell. She's unencumbered by the memories of her last life; this Arya knows not the pain she survived nor the loss she suffered, she'll not arrive too late, too late, too late, to be reunited with their family... this Arya, this this _sweet summer child_ … she'll not have a list, she'll not become No One, or Lanna or Arry or Mercy.

 _"A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell... and I'm going home."_

Arya sits at the base of the Three Sisters, Needle unsheathed and laid across her lap, the Knight of the Flowers, amour-less and smiling, sits aside her, his own blade at his feet and whetstone in hand. He's pretty, far prettier than any man has a right to be; the third son and the second Knighted, arrogant, but tempered here, with a child at his side he swore to protect. Bran watches, as the man Sansa charged with Arya's life, hands his wild sister the whetstone and a rag, teaching her patiently how to care for the blade she was gifted.

 _"Careful of your fingers against the blade's edge."_ The Knight whispers, and Arya nods, adjusting her grip and guiding the whetstone along the blade. _"Your Needle is quite an impressive blade for a Lady of a Noble house to carry."_

 _"I'm no Lady."_ Arya replies softly, pausing in her ministrations. _"My brother had Mikken make it special. Sansa, she had her knitting needles, and now, I have my own Needle."_

 _"Needle was_ _Robb_ _and_ _Bran_ _and_ _Rickon_ _, her_ _mother_ _and her_ _father_ _, even_ _Sansa_ _. Needle was_ _Winterfell_ _'s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows,_ _Old Nan_ _'s stories, the_ _heart-tree_ _with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the_ _north_ _wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was_ _Jon Snow_ _'s smile."_

 _"Not many brothers would arm their sisters."_ Loras murmurs, Bran thinks he sees admiration in his eyes.

Arya grins, smiling up at the man guarding her life. _"Not many brothers are like Jon. He and Robb... I cannot wait to see them again._ "

Bran sees the Knight return her smile. _"Soon, wild wolf, soon."_

The Three Sisters fade, and he's wingless again. _Home,_ his mind supplies, Winterfell. But... not. Half burned and decrepit, he feels only one of his family safely within the walls. _Sansa_. He's not seen Winterfell like this, though he knows instantly the chambers he's found himself in are his. Red seeps from the walls, sticky and thick, the green veins of magic in the stone obscured by all that's occurred here; this is after, he realises, the Bolton's bloody reign. _The North remembers_ , he muses, stepping back from the stone.

 _"Chaos is a ladder."_

He turns, and clutches at his chest as Littlefinger walks through him; it's not… _pleasant_ , the feeling of someone walking through him when he's wandering like this but as he watches the traitorous bastard shiver violently in the warm room, he thinks perhaps, this time it's worth it. Bran smirks, and his eyes wander. The room is stripped bare of everything that made it his; the toys he played with as a boy, the sketches Robb had drawn for him of their family, the carved wolves that used to sit on the mantle- Bran's stomach lurches, as he sees himself, crippled as he was in his last life, seated in a wheeled chair with his back to the fire, an all too familiar dagger in his lap.

" _What's that?"_

Bran's knees falter, and he staggers, clutching at the nearby bedpost to keep himself steady. That voice, _her voice_ … _Meera_. She's older than he's ever seen her, dark curly hair tied back, clad in grey furs head to toe. His heart aches. Gods, how he misses her.

" _Maester Wolkan built it for me."_ He hears himself say. _Wrong_. " _So I can move around more easily."_

Meera smiles and Bran hates how sad that smile is, how different it is to the one he remembers, so early on in their journey. " _It's a very good idea."_

" _You're leaving."_ The boy beside the fire states, and Bran shivers. _When_ , he wonders, _did he become so cold?_

" _I don't want to leave you."_ She whispers, _"but when… when they come, I need to be with my family. And, and you're safe. As safe as anyone can be now… you don't need me anymore."_

Emotionless, the boy in the wheeled chair responds. _"No. I don't."_

Meera's pretty face falls and Bran wishes she could hear _him_ instead. _"That's all you've got to say?"_

" _Thank you."_

" _Thank you?"_ She repeats, shock colouring her tone.

" _For helping me."_

Meera stumbles forward, her eyes glassy and her face pale. _"My brother died for you. Hodor and Summer died for you. I almost died for you!"_ She stares at him, and the stranger stares back. _"Bran!"_

" _I'm not really."_ The boy responds, and Bran loses his grip on the bedpost. _"Not anymore."_

He hears Meera's breath hitch, and sees the tears fall from her eyes, as the empty child continues again.

" _I remember what it felt like to be Brandon Stark… but I remember so much else now."_

She trembles, and Bran realises his own hands are shaking. " _You died in that cave."_

"I am who you will become Brandon Stark."

Bran looks up. Meera is gone, the boy in the chair stands unaided, and he feels like he's staring into the polished looking glass on the back of the door, rather than standing eye to eye with his last life.

Weakly, he shakes his head. "No."

"I am who you became when you awoke after falling from the Broken Tower, I am who you will always become."

"No, no, I will not become you." Bran shakes his head. "I changed this, I changed all of this, I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell and I am the Three-Eyed Raven, I do not have to choose!"

The _thing_ opposite him smiles wanly. "One day, _Brandon Stark,_ you will find you will."

* * *

 **AN:** The Winged Wolf flies again.

Thank you all for your patience, I understand this has been a long time coming, but as it usually does, life got in the way. I can't thank you all enough for every follow (1472), every favourite (1218) and every review (489), they mean the world to me.

This chapter is for Pete, who didn't know what I wrote, but encouraged me anyway. I love you buddy. Until we meet again.


	22. XXII - Playing at War

**AN:** Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the HBO Tv Show; Game of Thrones and George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark

* * *

 **Chapter XXII –** _Jon_

* * *

He's running.

Faster, faster, faster than he's ever run before, long, powerful, _impossible_ strides… were he on two legs and not four. In a way he has not since he slept amongst the Free Folk beyond the Wall in his last life, he has become Ghost, seeing once again, through his familiar's eyes. In his sleep, he is as much a Warg, as Bran is awake. It's like stepping back into boots, worn in and moulded seamlessly to his feet, and Jon feels perfectly at ease for the first time since waking in this life, riding as a passenger in his Direwolf's mind. There's a certain kind of _magic_ in his wolf, binding the once runt to his packmates; Jon _feels_ them, Grey Wind, Nymeria, Lady, Summer and Shaggydog, though only three run at his sides, and he wonders… his family… are they sharing their Direwolf's eyes just as he is?

Ghost stumbles, and Jon feels himself fall, his world turning, until suddenly he's upright, staring into a looking glass, a burnished bronze crown upon his head. He notes the scar upon his eye, and another twining across is bare shoulder and down his chest, thick and ropey and painful, raised alongside the scars left from the mutiny of his Black Brothers. It feels like silk Jon thinks, tracing the healed skin with his fingertips; a soft hand snakes around his waist, and he sucks in a breath, his own hand falling limply at his side.

" _Jon?_ "

He sees her reflection in the looking glass, and feels her smile steal the very breath from his lungs.

" _Sansa…"_ Jon whispers, her name falling like a prayer from his lips, and he turns; she's radiant, her hair free of any braids or twists, simply hanging like a halo around her shoulders. _"Beautiful_." He murmurs, twirling a stray lock between his fingers and she laughs; it's a sound he's dearly missed.

" _Even like this you still think me so?"_

Jon drops his gaze and his hands move of his own accord; Sansa, _his Sansa_ … heavy, with child. He feels the babe move beneath his fingers and Jon thinks he'll never know something so… _perfect_ , in any life he's destined to live.

A cool wind kisses his skin, and he feels snowflakes turn to ice in his hair; the chamber fades, and they're somewhere else, somewhere cold and dark, _winter_ _has come,_ he thinks, horror sweeping him. He stumbles as Sansa's ripped away from him, and his heart thunders wildly, when he sees the monster who grips her so cruelly.

" _If Ramsay wins, I'll not go back there alive. Do you understand me?"_

" _I won't ever let him touch you again. I'll protect you… I promise."_

" _No one can protect me… no one can protect anyone."_

Eyes, as bright and blue as stars, sunken in the still bloody face of _Ramsay Bolton_. Half ice, half man, Jon feels rage bubble in his chest as the Bastard grins manically, dragging a sharpened blade across Sansa's pale skin. Jon sees them then, the faltering, staggering dead; Eddard, headless, recognisable only by his doublet emblazoned with a Direwolf and Robb with Grey Wind's head spiked onto his shoulders. Lady Catelyn, with a terrifying smile, her throat cut from ear to ear, Arya, her skin peeled from her face and Rickon, reaching for him with an arrow in his chest. He sees Ygritte, blood spilling from her lips and Karsi, half her torso torn away. He sees Maester Aemon and Pip, Samwell and Gilly, Edd and Tormund and Jeor Mormont. Dead, all dead, their eyes unnaturally blue and their bodies ripped and broken and disfigured.

The raven circles overhead and the Bastard Bolton speaks, his voice not as Jon remembers, but something different, colder, a sound that reminds him of ice cracking. _"You will lose Jon Snow, and when you do, she'll be mine."_

"Jon!"

He's awake in an instant, dagger in hand, heaving bodily, unable to rid himself of the sight he imagined, the horror in her Tully blue eyes, and blood, so much blood, spilling from her neck.

"Jon, stop!"

Suddenly, his vision clears and it's Robb before him, _his_ Tully blue eyes stricken, the blade Jon holds, a hairs breadth from following the path of the Bolton Bastard's in his nightmare, and spilling Robb's blood down his chest. He scrambles backwards, dropping the dagger in the lush grass beside him, his hands shaking madly. " _Robb_." He yelps, "Robb, I- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Jon!" Robb reaches for him, gripping his shaking hands in his own. "What did you dream of that could have provoked such a reaction brother?"

He regains his breath… and lies. Jon knows he can tell his brother much, but the truth of his poisoned dream? He imagines Robb would sooner remove his head from his shoulders than allow another union between a _Targaryen_ and a Stark. "You were dead." Jon murmurs, "All of you, everyone I've known… you were all _gone._ "

Robb squeezes his hands tightly, and Jon clutches his _brother_ like a lifeline. "It was no more than a nightmare brother, we are alive, we are fighting, and _we will not lose._ "

Jon nods, even as his stomach churns and disbelief flood his veins. War and death go hand in hand, however it is not the Lannister Army he fears, but the army stirring far beyond the Wall, the army, the realm was not prepared to face in his last life... nor in this one. What use is fighting a silly Southern War for a throne he does not even wish to claim, when the dead march and the Other's grow more powerful with every snowfall? He stands, pulling Robb to his feet, and surveys their still sleeping retinue as his brother returns to his position as watchman. They look younger in sleep he thinks, unburdened by their positions in the realm and the war they fight, it's not even a third of the battle guard that formed around Robb upon leaving Winterfell, but Jon knows their party, is unlike anything seen in the South.

A King, a Bastard, a She-Bear, three heirs to Great Northern Houses and an Ironborn raised among wolves; Jon knows rumours run rampart in the South, their consideration of Northmen all too similar to the view of the Free Folk among the North and Jon thinks if any party could prove the _savagery_ of the North, it would be this one. A woman, fighting alongside men, a man, who could be half-giant, the heir, to a house _renowned_ for their skills in _flaying men alive_ , a hostage, from the second war in a generation, a boy King, who _knelt_ , and the last trueborn son of the _Silver Prince_ , hidden as a Bastard of an honourable man... It's odd to him, suddenly, that Harrion Karstark, bearded and fierce, _gifted_ with a blade in his hand, will be the most inconsequential to the gilded Southern Knights.

They're deep in the Reach when the sun reaches its peak, the lands here are fertile, green, untouched by the ravages of war and Jon wonders how long this land will remain so, should Sansa's machinations prove to be successful. Outriders intercept them only leagues past Tumbleton; the standard they bare is a variation of the Baratheon sigil, the crowned stag gold instead of black, and the field green, instead of yellow. Jon shares a smirk with Robb as the Outriders struggle with their mounts, the horses skittish and spooked, a stark contrast to the horses of their own party, that have long since gown used to the hidden presence of the four great Direwolves.

It is the sound that greets them first, as the Mander meets the Roseroad, the sound of steel upon steel and the noise of revelling men. Jon notes Robb's disapproving scowl first and is unsurprised to find mirroring expressions on the rest of their company's faces.

"We are losing men every day, and they're camped here, playing at war." Robb hisses, restless atop his Destrier.

Theon grins, oblivious to the danger in Robb's expression. "I've always wanted to fight in a Melee."

Robb shoots the Ironborn a withering glare. "Aye, and if you feel the need, you'll not fight in an army of mine again; if you're willing to die for as little as a pouch of coin, your life is not worth much to me."

Smalljon fails to smother his guffaws as Theon quiets; he reminds Jon of Bran in that moment, when he was scolded by their Lord Father as a child.

The Outriders slow, all too eager to dismount their skittish horses, and gesture for their party to do the same as a group of young men, dressed head to toe in green and gold, meet them. It's a subtle power play, Jon knows as he hands his reins to the willing Squire; to have their party approach on foot, whilst Renly sits, raised upon a throne, gives the impression that the youngest Baratheon does not view the King in the North as an equal.

A wispy young man steps forward. Jon recognises the sigil he wears, a yellow centaur on a white field, as that of House Caswell, the sitting house of Bitterbridge. "Lord Stark, I am Lord Caswell, I was sorry to hear of the death of your father. He was a good man."

Robb nods, accepting the condolence with grace, uncaring of the intentional slight. "Thank you, Lord Caswell, now if you please, take us to your King."

The man nods, turning on his heel and marching through the tents erected at the foot of his seat. Jon falls into step aside Robb and whistles lowly, calling the pack of Direwolves to them; if the Northern warriors at their backs did not give these Southerners pause, the four great Direwolves, the like of which unseen before in the South, will. The crowd parts for them easily, and soon enough Jon sees the fight for which the men cheer; he recognises the larger of the two foes in an instant, his heart swelling with pride as he watches her turn the pretty Knight of the Flowers into a whimpering puddle beneath her unforgiving strikes.

"He fights like a Northerner." Smalljon mutters, and Jon allows himself a smirk. Brienne of Tarth would be and _was_ far more at home among the warriors of the North than she ever was in the South.

Jon surveys the assembled crowd, noting immediately the majority of the soldiers are of the Reach, their Houses sworn to House Tyrell first, and King Renly second; Jon is not shocked that the majority of Renly's army is called from his goodfamily's Bannermen, for the loyalty of the Stormland's houses, were split between the warring Baratheon brothers. Jon's eyes fall upon the woman seated elegantly upon a throne to Renly's left, and recalls every kind word Sansa spoke of Margaery Tyrell. He recognises the painted smile on her lips, the smile Sansa had adopted as her own, kind, secretive, _alluring_ , and understands instantly how this woman had survived Joffrey Baratheon's cruelty, matched Cersei Lannister's poisoned games with plots of her own and remained a Queen throughout it all… _rose petals may fall_ , he thinks, _but the thorns always remain._

"Yeild!" Jon's attention is redrawn to the centre of the crowd, as Brienne holds a wicked looking knife Loras Tyrell's unguarded face. "I yield!"

Jon looks back towards the thrones; Renly grins widely as he claps, whilst his Queen eyes her brother with thinly veiled disappointment. "Well fought." Renly nods. "Approach."

Brienne does so, the heavy armour she wears incredibly ill-fitting, turning her usual graceful gait into an awkward lumber; it's odd, Jon thinks, to know what Brienne becomes, and to see her like this. She kneels, her amour clinking loudly.

"Rise." Renly commands. "Remove your helm."

The gasps are insulting, and Jon discreetly gestures to Smalljon, the heir to the Last Hearth immediately shifting closer to the outraged Dacey, who looks ready to draw her own sword to defend Brienne. "Calm Dacey." Smalljon murmurs, and she nods reluctantly, lowering her hand from her sword belt.

"You are all your father promised and more My Lady. I've seen Ser Loras bested once or twice, but… never in _quite_ that fashion."

"Now, now my love, my brother fought valiantly for you." Margaery's voice is sweet, but her words as sharp as the blade strapped across his brother's back; Jon feels Robb shift uneasily beside him and restrains a smirk at his momentarily flustered expression.

Renly seems to consider her words, though whether he heard the veiled reprimand, Jon is uncertain. "That he did my Queen… but there can only be one champion. Brienne of Tarth! You may ask anything of me that you desire, if it is within my power, it is yours."

Brienne kneels again, and Jon knows immediately what it is she will ask. "Your Grace, I ask the honour of a place in your Kingsguard."

Her strong words almost cause a riot amongst the Southern soldiers, a riot, Jon knows, Dacey is all too keen to be amongst, the insulting attitudes of these men not sitting any better with her than they do with him. Jon again, wishes he was back amongst the Free Folk, far from the Southern politics he's beginning to despise.

"I will be one of your Seven, I will pledge my life to yours and keep you safe from all harm." Brienne finishes.

"Done!" Renly calls, after a moment of deliberation. "Arise, Brienne of the Kingsguard." He claps, and his men follow suit reluctantly. Jon's eyes fall upon Margaery, the smirk she wears all too familiar to him, and he wonders, just how much of the woman Sansa became, was shaped by Margaery Tyrell?

Lord Caswell steps forward. "Your Grace, I have the honour to bring before you Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell."

Jon steps forward, unable to abide the insult; Robb may have knelt, but he knelt _only_ to him, not to this Southern pretender. "And yet you insult him." He growls. "You speak of honour, Lord Caswell, if you had any, you would introduce my King by the _title_ he earned."

"You have no right to speak to me Bastard." Lord Caswell spits, "I am a Lord and you are nothing."

" _Never forget what you are. The world will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you."_

In his last life, that insult might have stung. In this life, Jon grins and ignores the irate Lord, as he hears the gathered Southern soldiers begin to startle and yell and the familiar low growls of the Pack he's raised. Jon smirks savagely as Ghost moves to his side, the great wolf almost as tall as his shoulder.

"King Renly, I have the honour to introduce Robb Stark, First of his Name, Lord of Winterfell, King, in the North and of the Trident."

" _King_ Robb." Renly smiles stiffly, and Jon wonders just what rumours of the Direwolves have reached this far South. "I am… pleased to see you. May I present my wife, Lady Margaery, of House Tyrell."

Robb strides forward, Grey Wind at his heels, and takes Margaery's offered hand, bowing over it with ease Jon knows he himself does not possess. "Lady Margaery." He murmurs.

"You are most welcome here King Robb." She says and bows her head. "I'm sorry, for your loss." Lady Margaery holds Robb's gaze for slightly longer than appropriate and Jon admires her gumption in doing so, with her Lord Husband at her side. She glances over Robb's head, and meets Jon's eyes for a moment, and he realises that her commiseration is as much for him, as his brother.

"You are most kind." Robb says loudly, inclining his head respectfully.

"Robb," Renly starts, and Jon thinks the sudden overt familiarity _rude_. "I swear to you, I will see the Lannister's answer for your Father's murder… when I take Kings Landing… I will bring you Joffrey's head!" His Bannermen roar their approval, and Jon eyes the sitting King with veiled distain; Renly is a figurehead, a _steppingstone_ for House Tyrell to make themselves a _Queen_ , his words, as they are, mean as little to him as the Iron Throne itself.

"It will be enough to know that justice is done _Renly_." Robb responds strongly.

"Have you marched against Tywin Lannister yet?" Interrupts Lord Caswell, "Or are you here to bid King Renly to vanquish your enemies for you?"

"I do not discuss my strategy in the open Lord Caswell, for you see, I have been fighting _and winning_ a war, not hiding behind my castle walls _playing_ at war."

The amassed Knight's titter and stir at the insult, and Jon surveys the unabashedly amused Lady Margaery and the cooled gaze of _King_ Renly, until he claps, a façade of humour on his lips as he stands and descends from his wooden throne. "Do not worry my friend. Our war, is just beginning." He meets Robb at the bottom, extending a hand that Robb takes with grace. They shake, once, and Renly speaks again. "Come, we have much to discuss."

"Lord Jon!" Lady Margaery calls, standing elegantly. "I am in need of an escort. Would you oblige me?"

Jon eyes the woman speculatively and turns to Renly and Robb. "By your leave your Grace?"

Renly nods. "Whatever my Queen wishes."

Jon raises a brow, at looks pointedly at Robb. His brother grins and dips his head. "Whatever Lady Margaery wishes. Dacey," He calls, "with me. Smalljon, make camp."

Lady Margaery descends the few stairs with elegance few possess and smiles secretively as she hooks her hand in the crook of his arm. Jon allows her to lead him through the assembled tents; her smile is amiable as various Lords and Sers greet her with bows, her easy courtesy reminding him so strongly of Sansa, his heart aches.

"You have the Stark look." Lady Margaery states, as they reach a succession of ornate tents.

Jon blinks, her comment coming without warning. "Aye My Lady." He answers.

She falls silent again, as they stop outside a tent painted with golden roses. Lady Margaery releases his arm and turns to face him. "I have never understood the appeal of a blade. I learnt to wield a bow and arrow to satisfy my Grandmother as a child and yet, upon leaving Highgarden, my brothers presented me with a dagger and a promise Loras would teach me to use it. Willas, suggested I fasten it to my leg, for he'd met a young lady in Kings Landing, who had done just that, with great success."

Jon eyes her speculatively, wondering exactly what she knows. "She sounds quite fierce, the young lady your brother met."

Lady Margaery returns his gaze. "Yes," she agrees slowly. "I imagine she is." She steps back, and curtsies lightly. "Thank you for the escort Lord Jon." Margaery gestures to the tent. "I believe you will find what you are looking for inside."

His feet move before he's even aware, pushing the canvas flaps aside and is unsurprised to find the inside of the tent furnished with various pieces baring the Tyrell standard. Jon's heart stops as he sees her; she's unmistakeable, even with her dark hair dyed blonde and coal smudging the sharp lines of her cheeks.

"Jon!" She cries, leaping at him wildly. He catches her deftly, crushing her tightly to his chest, just as he did before she left Winterfell.

" _Arya_."

* * *

 **AN:** And finally, our Wild Wolf is reunited with her brothers.

Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favourited and followed. I know it's been a long wait but hopefully, this chapter will be worth it.


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